


On Getting to the Perfection of One Flesh

by iulia_linnea



Series: The Verges and Variations Cycle [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus and Harry's relationship is on the verge of taking an ecstatic turn, but matters from the past and present interfere with its progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolegomenon

**Author's Note:**

> Follows Getting Back to Normal. Originally posted on 10 May 2004 and completed on 22 August 2004.

Severus moved deliberately about his chambers and marveled at his belongings as if they were treasures. Everything seemed wonderful to him in this instance, for this was his first private moment as a man who knew that he was loved. The woman who loved him had only left to see that the children in her care were safely tucked in for the night—and she would soon be returning to afford him the same kindness.

As he disrobed, he elected not to shower lest he lose the sensation of heat from the press of Ree's body against his own. 

He wanted to remember everything.

He also wanted to experience fully the disorienting effects of having half-undressed a beautiful, willing woman not an hour ago, of having pushed her to a worktable heedless of the materials lain upon it, of having felt her exploratory hands laying claim to the territory of his shoulders, his chest, his thighs— _gods!_

"What is taking her so long?"

Severus' senses reeled as if he had drunk just a dram more than was wise. If he had been a man with less self-control, he knew that the powerful recklessness thrumming through his veins would have had him yelling for the sheer joy of hearing the sound.

Touching his bruised lips, Hogwarts' Potions master took consolation in a rather more dignified whisper.

"Harry loves me, and I her."

On a whim, he quit his bed chamber and returned to the classroom where Ree's perfume lingered above the odors of the day's experiments. Notes of rosemary asserted themselves above those of salt and summer rain—each blending with something intrinsically part of the woman to become her scent.

It had always amused the Potions master that the Girl Who Lived favored rosemary, an herb associated with clarity of thought, for Harry— _Ree?_ No, being honest with himself, Severus knew that she would always be his _Harry_ —did not often allow herself the time for clear-headedness before charging off on whatever task she had set for herself.

"Though perhaps I would not love her quite so well were she as methodical as I."

As soon as he spoke the sentiment, he knew it was untrue; he, himself, had loved Harry for far longer than was appropriate, and he knew that there was nothing about the young woman that he could not love.

Running a hand through his hair in a gesture of nervousness, Severus tried to control himself. Soon, the corridors would ring quietly with the footsteps of his concealed lover as she carried herself discreetly past any impediments to his door, _to his bed._

His fingers came away from strands of hair that hung stickily with the fumes of the baffling contents of student cauldrons, and he swore. Before midnight, he would have hundreds of memories of Harry, but not unless he properly prepared himself.

Over the steaming hiss of the shower, Severus did not notice the disembodied chanting that vibrated through his rooms, and this emanation stopped with the cessation of the water. The strengthened wards shimmered slightly and then faded into the walls as the privacy of the Potions master's suite, at least for the next several hours, was assured.

Rising through the ceiling in search of Peeves, the Bloody Baron wore a rare pleased expression. He had long been of the opinion that Snape needed a woman, and as a Slytherin and a gentleman, he felt it was his duty to help his favorite inhabitant of the castle enjoy her _properly._


	2. Chapter One: Numinousity and Nuisance

The Hall of Monuments was not particularly grand, but the simplicity of its architecture suited its purpose well. A long, wide corridor of polished tan stone in which benches of the same were placed at intervals, the hall was the final resting place for many notables of the Wizarding world. Minerva McGonagall was among the luminaries who rested within its walls, her "monument" a hammered copper plaque bearing her name. This metal sheet was affixed to the stone behind which her remains lay entombed, and lit by the discreet phosphorescence of a convenient sconce. 

The illumination flared with deceptive brightness as a lone mourner leaned toward this identifying feature, drew a fingertip over the cold letters of the name it bore, and whispered, " _Vita_." 

The spell activated a disembodied voice which dispassionately recited the known facts of the late witch's life.

Albus Dumbledore lowered himself onto the bench in front of Minerva's sepulchre and sighed. 

"Well, dear girl, I think it may take more time than I had hoped to put things to rights. The children seem to be sorting each other out; however, I am receiving reports of a disquieting nature about the Orkneys. When he drew too deeply on the power of the Ley and destroyed the Lace Islands, Salthus sent many objects of power to the sea's floor. Alas, it seems that there are those remaining in the world who remember this fact, or have discovered it, and now, now I fear that these people seek to relearn our old king's mysteries."

The wizard stood slowly, and paced before the bench.

"My thoughts have been turning on this problem for years, yet I am no closer to learning the identities of these . . . historians. You can appreciate how this frustrates me, I know. . . . Or you would, were you still with me."

Wiping a tear away, Albus sat again. He knew it was silly of him to speak of these matters, but indulged himself freely. All words spoken in the Hall of Monuments were for the ears of the dead—even if the dead were not present to hear them—so there could be no discovery. As he had no one with whom to discuss his situation except the dead, Albus felt he could excuse himself for his sentimental lapse. He so wished for Minerva.

In truth, the wizard knew that there were at least a few souls with whom he might discuss the disturbing renewal of interest in the archaeology of Britain's first Wizarding settlement. Unfortunately, two of these individuals would be pained to remember the events in question, and one was better left out of the discussion altogether, lest it give him ideas. In any case, Albus did not believe that Rosantha, Papavera, or Salthus had anything at all to do with these matters. 

_And I believe that because I am growing old, and it is what I wish to believe._

Tancredo had told Albus once that a trusting nature was an inherent arrogance, an irresponsibility that leaders and guardians could ill-afford. Given that the Old One had survived in the Wilds against an evil plague so ancient that it bled back to a time before all of the stars that now composed the night sky had been born, the wizard had accepted the vampire's creed without reservation.

_But now I think I may be forced to admit I was . . . mistaken in this policy. I am weakening by choice; I cannot stop the process of my death. Those who will remain to fight must be told where the new field of battle shall be._ "May they forgive me for my wanting to protect them from this knowledge."

Abruptly, the hall was plunged into darkness. Almost immediately, the sconces rekindled to a gloaming state. With the light came a presence.

"They won't."

"Minerva, I did not think you would come."

"I didn't think I would, either, but you _did_ sound as though you might continue in this maudlin vein for some time. Go and unburden yourself where it might do some good, man!"

"It does me a great good to see you, my love."

The expression of irritation on the ghost's features lessened, only slightly, and she replied, "But it does the Greater Good no service for you to be waxing nostalgic with stone and bones. Do what you must, and then come to me, Albus. You know where to find me when it is time."

"You were ever the mistress of your priorities, my dear."

"Tempus fugit, Albus. Tempus fugit!"

"Indeed, time does fly—too fast, yet too slowly."

"If I had a broomstick, I'd be beating you in the head with it."

"Actually, I apparated here."

"Albus!"

The wizard chuckled, and replied, "Thank you, my dear. I shall leave you in peace."

In a tone of voice that held laughter and the promise of rest, Minerva whispered, "So you say, yet there you stand."

When her form had shimmered into absence, Albus turned and left the hall. He knew he would see his lover again in good time. It was enough.

It was everything.

~*~

"Nothing is working! I don't understand it," Harry almost yelled in frustration.

Remus enfolded the young woman in his arms and held her for a moment. "It's going to be all right, Ree. We'll find him."

At first, Harry had believed she had taken a wrong turn in the dungeons in her excitement to return to Severus, but as the minutes passed and she still failed to find the door to his rooms, she had given up and gone to find help.

"I know the staircases change, but the doors have never moved before—certainly entire corridors haven't!"

"Actually, that isn't true," Sirius said, coming into the rooms he shared with his lover. "Your own chambers were formed by the reorganization of the castle."

"But that was intentional. Severus' part of the dungeons has just disappeared. Trust me when I tell you that he would not have wanted that to happen tonight!"

The two men let her words pass without comment, though Sirius looked as though he might speak before catching a warning glance from Remus.

A knock a the door startled them.

"Come in," called Sirius.

Filch, followed by Mrs. Norris, entered. 

"Well, she's right. Snape's chambers seem to have vanished. Even the house elves can't find them."

"The windows!" Harry exclaimed. "We can go outside to the lower windows and get into the Potions classroom through them."

"I did think of that," Filch said, his mouth curling into a sour grimace. "There are no windows to his classroom anymore. I checked."

Harry looked almost frantic. 

"Someone's hidden him. Someone's doing this on purpose!"

"Like as not, that's true," said Filch.

"Argus," Sirius asked, "can you remember anything like this happening before?"

"No. I don't like it—doesn't bode well."

"Thank you, Filch," Sirius said sarcastically. "You've been very helpful."

"I'll thank you to remember that—"

Remus made a conciliatory gesture with his hands in the caretaker's direction, and said, "Never mind us, Filch. We're all a bit concerned."

"There's no need to get on a man for doin' his job. I looked for him, didn't I?"

"And you've been very helpful. We appreciate it. But now I think perhaps you should go about your duties, and we'll let you know if we need any further assistance."

Filch went grumbling out the door, but Mrs. Norris remained behind. The caretaker was too upset to notice that he had left alone.

Harry stared a the cat. 

"What do you want?"

"Mreoww'll thank you to show some respect to your elders, young lady," said the cat, who was suddenly standing on two feet, shedding, and then transforming into human form.

Sirius and Remus, having never seen Mrs. Norris transmogrify, were gobsmacked. Harry was unimpressed.

"Good evening, Ma'am," the young witch said.

"Manners. Odd—but welcome," the lady said, turning slowly to look about her. "Without the eyes, the cat's eyes, my eyes, it's all so strange."

"Would you look at that," Sirius finally managed to choke out, pointing at the eye situated high on the back of Mrs. Norris' head.

"No manners! Rudeness! Always, the rudeness," the odd woman said, rubbing one hand over her face as if to smooth the whiskers she no longer wore.

Sirius moved forward and offered his hand to Mrs. Norris, who hissed and batted it away. 

"No! I won't! No shaking with dogs."

To Harry's chagrin, her godfather growled low in his throat, which caused Mrs. Norris to sprout two perfect cat ears.

"Please don't change back, Mrs. Norris! You don't have to shake hands with the . . . the dog," she said, throwing a pleading glance in Sirius' direction. "Please tell me what you were going to say."

Sniffing, the woman settled down a bit and said, "Room with the bad smells. With the tall and dark man who never steps on my tail. Room is not gone. Hidden."

"Do you know how?" Sirius asked.

"Stupid two-eyes can't see it. I can see it."

"Will you take us to it?" asked Harry, a hopeful expression on her face.

"You've been. You've not seen it. Same place. Same bad smells. Same tall and dark smell. But now tall and dark is angry."

"Severus hasn't been hurt, has he?" Remus asked, hoping that he would not worry Ree more by asking the question.

"No hurt smells. _Angry_ smells," Mrs. Norris responded before issuing a series of dreadful sounding coughs.

"Are you all right?" they all asked at once.

The lady looked embarrassed, and turned her mouth into her hand to cough something up into it. 

"Mrs. Norris?" prompted Harry. 

"Hairball. Hate them."

Remus shoved Sirius hard before he could laugh out loud.

"Stupid two-eyes," Mrs. Norris said, and it was clear that she'd heard the stifled laughter. "Go back to the bad smells and look for yourselves. No more talking."

With that, the lady reshaped herself into her feline form and stalked out the still-open door, hissing the entire way down the hall.

"Well," said Remus, "did you know that she could do that?"

"No," Sirius replied.

"Yes," said Harry. "But I really don't want to discuss how I discovered her."

"There's an image I'll have a difficult time removing from my mind's eye," Sirius informed them. "'Stupid two-eyes', indeed. . . . So, I suppose this means that, for whatever reason, Severus has hidden his chambers."

"No, he _hasn't_." Harry insisted. "I told you—Severus and I were going to . . . have a late meeting tonight. He knew that I was coming. He _wouldn't_ have hidden his door."

"Is that what they're calling it these da—ow!"

"Just be thankful you don't have a tail, love," Remus said sternly to Sirius, who was hopping on one foot.

"Promise me that you won't tell Severus that you know . . . that we . . . he'd be—he'd probably hex a tail on you!" Harry exclaimed in mortification.

"Don't worry. Remus and I understand the efficiency of the 'late meeting'. So, how long have you been scheduling those?"

"Sirius!" Remus and Harry exclaimed as one.

"Well, she's my goddaughter. I'm entitled to know what's going on in her life, aren't I?"

Before anyone could respond, a shaft of morning sun penetrated the window and lightened the room.

"Oh, no. It's dawn," Harry said. "I've got Quidditch practice this morning."

"And we've got classes—but then again, so does Severus. Let's run back down to the dungeons and see if his door has returned," suggested Remus.

They all agreed to this, Harry hurrying ahead of them.

"Good morning, professors," called Argyle Slizer, who was in his Quidditch gear and heading toward the Great Hall with some house mates.

Passing the outer door to the Potions classroom, Remus and Sirius gave good-natured waves, and Harry managed a nod before practically running to where the entrance to Severus' private rooms should be.

It was present, open, and filled with the admittedly tall, definitely dark, decidedly furious form of Hogwarts' Potions master.

~*~

Harry stopped short when she saw the deadly look that overspread Severus' features. "What happened? You disappeared!" she exclaimed, clearly trying not to throw herself into the man's arms.

Her god- and heartfathers assiduously failed to notice her efforts.

Noting the presence of Sirius and Remus, Severus nodded before taking one of Harry's hands in his own. 

"Gentleman, would you be good enough to wait inside?"

"We could wait out here if you like," Remus offered.

Severus shuddered. "No, I thank you. I would prefer the corridor. We'll join you in a moment."

When the two men had gone, Severus whispered a concealment spell, put away his wand, and drew Harry into his arms.

"Why are we standing out here? What happened? Gods, I missed you last night!"

"And I you. Unfortunately, our wishes ran counter to those of Slytherin's chief . . . ghost."

"I don't understand."

"I know. And we have not enough time for me to explain properly. Harry, Miss Potter, would you do me the honor of accepting my invitation to dine at the Gryphon's Foote this evening?"

Harry pulled a little from Severus so that she could see his face and asked, "You're asking me to dinner?"

"I am."

"Well, but . . . ."

"You do not wish to accompany me out?" Severus asked, his mouth easing into the hint of a teasing smile. "I can assure you that we will have ample privacy to discuss the disquieting events of last evening. I have taken the liberty of reserving the Terrace."

_We've never had much luck with terraces_ , Harry thought, but wisely kept to herself. She knew from the determined set of Severus' jaw that she would have to wait to discover what had happened. "I hate to wait, but yes, I would like to see you this evening—as long as you can assure me that you're all right."

Leaning into her mouth, he replied, "I am perfectly fine . . . now," and then he kissed her.

"Aww," they heard, and turned to see Marazelle Zabini standing in the corridor looking tremendously pleased.

"Go to breakfast, Miss Zabini."

"Yes, Professor!" the girl acknowledged before skipping down the corridor.

"I apologize, Harry. I should have set the charm for longer."

The Defense Against the Dark Arts mistress smiled. "I'm not sorry. I don't care _who_ sees us."

Severus made a small noise at the back of his throat and pulled Harry just inside his door. 

They were still kissing with great enthusiasm when Sirius asked, "Are you certain that you wouldn't prefer us to wait in the corridor?"

"Oh! I've got to get to the field!" Harry said, breaking the embrace and stepping back through the door. 

With a last long look at the Potions master, she was gone.

"Don't forget breakfast!" Remus called.

Collecting himself, Severus turned to the other professors. "If you would be good enough to postpone yours, gentlemen, I would like to have a few words with you."

~*~

"Ginny," called Mrs. Weasley later that morning as she was coming into the kitchen with a basket full of squash, "have you given any thought to coming to the Assembly?"

Mr. Weasley smiled behind his newspaper, while his daughter—who was home for a brief rest before heading off on a new assignment, her brother spending his holiday with friends—grimaced.

"Mother, what you're really asking is whether or not I intend to enter any of the 'festival games', and you should know better than to even ask!"

Having placed her courgettes on the counter nearest the sink, Molly began washing vegetables with slightly irritated vigor. 

"I don't know why you won't even consider it, Ginny. You're twenty-one, and that's a fine age to be considering matrimony."

The Assembly, despite its diminutive name, was in truth a grand affair held every thirteen years. Tradition held that it had been established in the Early Times by a great wizard of peaceful and scholarly ways as an opportunity for the magical folk of the British Isles to meet in safety, share their traditions and knowledge, settle disputes, and find marriage partners. With the foundation of the Ministry of Magic, some of the old purposes of the Assembly had been rendered obsolete; however, many would-be apprentices continued to look for masters at the meeting, advances in magic were exhibited and discussed, and those souls seeking to find their mates were afforded ample chances of doing so. There were also rituals in which one might participate that would ensure a strong match was made between interested parties. Because of this, Molly Weasley was not the first mother to encourage her child to seek companionship at the Assembly.

Unfortunately for her mother, Ginny Weasley had no desire to be wed—not with her career going so smashingly—and she said as much. 

"Mother, I'm not going to go if you're planning to throw boys at me."

"Now you know quite well that I would never do such a thing!"

Arthur grunted a little from behind the Quidditch section of his paper.

"And what do you mean by that?" his wife asked.

Ginny answered for him. "'Oh, Ginny dear, I've met the nicest young man—he's in magiceuticals—you simply must come meet him when you're next at home'. 'Oh, my dear, were you aware that Colin Creevey was just promoted to the head of the Art department at _Witches Weekly_? Wouldn't you like to catch up with him? I could arrange—'"

"Enough, enough," Molly said. "If you're not interested in meeting a young man, that's your business. You know that I'd never interfere."

Ginny smiled as she watched her mother begin slicing squash into a baking dish. Eventually, she would bring home a boyfriend—eventually—when she found a wizard who was not so traditional. She was certain the man she dreamt of was not going to be found with the hidebound idiots likely to participate in the dreary, get-to-know-you games at the Assembly.

From the description of the affair she had received from Bill, she was not even certain she wanted to go. It would be impossible to remain anonymous there, and she knew that many "suitors" would be more interested in her for her name than herself. Bill had already warned her to prepare herself for that, as well as for snubs, given how their fortunes had fallen in the last generation or so.

_Better_ not _to go, I think. After all, I'd hate to have to cause a scene by defending the honor of my family._


	3. Chapter Two: Observing the Proprieties

There did not seem to be a door to the room in which he found himself, but there was a window, such as it was; it did not show him anything through the shimmering inside of its frame.

If he concentrated, the shimmering seemed to emit a pleasant humming. He listened to this "music" while he exercised and waited for one of the nuns to appear with his meals.

Just as he finished his umpteenth round of stretching, a soft-featured woman appeared before him bearing a tray.

"Good evening. Are you hungry?"

"No—I mean, yes—but . . . ."

"But you would like to see."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You would like to see something more than your room, would you not?"

"Yes," the boy answered quickly, taking the tray from the lady and setting it on the room's one table.

"Very well. Go to the window and look out of it," the nun instructed him.

"I've done that. All I ever see is the shimmer."

"That is because you did not know to look _through_ the shimmer."

_Great. Everyone sounds the same here. No one makes any bloody sense_! the boy thought, but he did as the woman told him anyway.

And suddenly, he was looking through the shimmer onto an unexpected scene.

"I wouldn't want to have to clean that up!"

~*~

After having banished Peeves from his workroom when he discovered the ghost vandalizing it—under the direction of another one—Severus had initially intended to see both specters permanently exorcized from Hogwarts.

But then the Bloody Baron had done something completely unexpected: he had _spoken_.

The man's story had taken some time to tell, but his parting words rang yet in the Potion master's ears:

" _A_ proper _wizard does not impose his amorous attentions upon the witch whom he intends to wed without the benefit of the knowledge and consent of that lady's family. To do otherwise is to subject the object of one's affections to sordid scandal_."

Chastened, Severus was forced to concede this point: although Harry had not been raised to understand or expect the traditional steps taken toward the commencement of an honorable courtship, such codes of conduct _would_ be familiar to the Wizarding world, Remus Lupin, and _Sirius Black_.

_I have treated her shabbily, and must make it right before Harry becomes enmeshed in a greater scandal than the mere fact of our . . . romance shall cause_.

Questions would have to be answered before they were asked, which meant that now he must entreat permission to pay his addresses in the old fashion. Once this was done, no one of any decency would dare intrude _too_ deeply into their relationship, for to do so would be to risk the censure and ostracization of society.

_At least, that is my profound_ hope.

With some understandable difficulty, Severus ruthlessly crushed his natural cynicism so that he might hold onto this new and welcome sensation.

~*~

"What is he doing out there?" Sirius asked Remus, who was standing just inside of the door to the sitting room.

Remus inhaled, testing the air for emotional notes. "I believe he's just standing there. He smells nervous."

"I imagine he does," Sirius said, an air of amused indignance infusing his tone. "He was just molesting my goddaughter in public!"

"I would hardly call it that, love. It's not as though—"

"Sirius is correct. My behavior was inappropriate, Remus."

Neither man knew what to say in response to this startling announcement.

"I apologize."

"Merlin's beard—you're ill!" Sirius exclaimed.

Remus laid a gentle hand on the Potion master's arm and guided him to his customary chair by the hearth. He then moved to stand next to Sirius' chair.

"Oh, here," Sirius said to his lover, moving to allow Remus to sit down.

As Severus witnessed the tender expressions with which his guests favored each other, his tension eased somewhat. These men knew love, and what was more, they were his . . . friends. Perhaps they _would_ understand him.

"Would you care for tea?" he asked automatically.

Remembering themselves, Remus and Sirius chuckled softly.

"Yes," said Remus. "We'd love some tea."

"Especially if it's _Scotch_."

A small tray holding a bottle of Lagavulin and three glasses appeared without warning, surprising the wizards.

"Dobby," Severus commented.

~*~

Arriving at the Quidditch field, Harry did not have long to wonder: Marazelle had not elected to keep secret her newly discovered intelligence regarding her professors' canoodling.

"Good morning, Mrs. Snape," a gleeful Wenda Watlings greeted her to the snickers of several of the players.

"That will do, Miss Watlings," Harry said, resolutely ignoring both the teasing looks of her players and the fact that, increasingly, she seemed to channel Minerva McGonagall in her dealings with students. "Those of you who are not here to practice either go to the stands, or return to the castle. We've a great deal to accomplish this morning."

_I hope Severus won't mind the gossip_ too _much_ , Harry thought, refusing to believe she had just heard some student she did not identify for his own good whisper, "Yeah, I'll bet she and the ol' Slytherin accomplished a lot last _night_ , as well!"

Harry made a show of drawing her wand, and the children went stock still, facing as they were the _Professor_ Who Lived. In spite of their adoration and genuine respect for Professor Potter, they were all a little in awe of her. Thanks to Fred and George Weasley, who were themselves Hogwarts legends, they had heard of the Potter-Snape Duel, they knew of the Meeting in the Woods that had ended with the grisly demise of several Death Eaters, they had been talking about the Final Battle for years—and, what was more, they could feel the earth rumbling threateningly underfoot as their favorite professor glared at them. 

"Good. I have your attention. . . . I certainly wouldn't want to give detentions so close to a Hogsmeade weekend," Harry remarked, pleased to see that her announcement had caused the desired silence, "but it's . . . _disappointing_ to note the lack of respect with which you favor our Professor Snape." 

Her words produced a satisfying ripple of unhappiness to roll through the group as the students realized that they might have gone too far: No one liked letting down Harry Potter.

"Professor Snape deserves your respect. He spent years of his life defending your lives. You will _not_ rumor-monger about him. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Professor Potter," most of the students said. 

Harry only heard one or two "Professor Snapes," which was better than she had hoped.

Practice continued with its usual eventfulness, and Harry was gradually able to relax, in spite of having to send two students to the Infirmary when they crashed into each other and then the ground after poorly executing the Weasley Checkmate Maneuver. The move was a variation on the Potter Rush, in which two players raced toward each other as in the Muggle game of "Chicken." In Ron's version of the move, however, the more aggressive rusher grabbed hold of the broomstick of the opposing player and forced him or her in whatever direction would do the opposing player's team the least amount of good. Ron had always targeted the strongest beater to give Harry a better chance at undisturbed snitch-hunting.

_Seventh Year Quidditch was grand_ , Harry thought, scanning the students in the stands, as she purposefully floated a little farther away from them than was her habit so that they could pretend not to be gossiping in peace.

Later, as she was packing the equipment after practice, she realized she could expect talk from _other_ quarters, and she began to fear for Severus' peace of mind.

If she had threatened students for their talking out of turn, what might the "ol' Slytherin" do to them?

Professor Potter shuddered to think of it.

~*~

Sitting through lunch was nerve-wracking. Not only did Harry find herself replaying in her mind the sly asides of the players from the morning's practice, she now found herself studiously ignoring the pointed references her colleagues were making about the upcoming Assembly, particularly those comments pertaining to the courtship rites. To make matters worse, Sirius, Remus, and Severus were conspicuously absent.

"I shouldn't worry about it too much, Ree," Professor Flitwick said. "It takes a bit of time to iron out the particulars."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing to worry about there, to be sure. It's not as though it were a great secret. Snape is going about it in exactly the right way."

"What?"

"But then, what else would one expect from our soon-to-be deputy headmaster?"

Now Harry was thoroughly confused. _What_ was Severus going about in the "right way," and what did it have to do with his potential promotion? Before she could ask Flitwick what he meant, Professor Dumbledore placed his hand over hers to catch her attention.

"The Board has just announced the candidates for Minerva's replacement, and Severus has my full recommendation."

Harry turned to look at Albus. His expression was impassive, but she knew this subject must be difficult for him to discuss. "It was kind of them to wait this long, Headmaster."

She did not know what else to say.

"Yes, it was. And we have had many other matters to settle toward putting things to rights, haven't we?"

That was true, though Harry had not been part of the school's reorganization. Albus had spared her from administrative duties, in spite of the Ministry's desire to make public use of its greatest asset. As far as Dumbledore was concerned, Harry had done her duty, and now it was time for her to make a life for herself without having to struggle against the constraints of the expectations of others.

_And she has only just begun to do that, really_.

Albus knew, as Harry did not, that her physical recovery from the war had only been the beginning. Tending to her emotional scars would only occur when the young woman felt safe enough to contemplate them. In four years, the young witch had remained stubbornly blind to this necessity.

_But I have seen how it begins_ , the old wizard thought ruefully, marveling to himself how the girl had also remained oblivious to her developing gift—a skill that would have served her well, had she cared to use it. _I was not strong enough in the beginning to stop the Sight_.

Of late, the wizard had not been strong enough to exercise this particular power, yet the last thing he had seen clearly was the unpleasant experience that was awaiting one of his favorite people, and this was hard to bear.

"Does Severus know?" Harry asked, interrupting Albus' thoughts.

"Yes, he is aware of my decision. He knows too that there may be some . . . objection to his taking the position; however, I intend to be most insistent on his appointment, as I'm of a mind to retire."

This was shocking news. It had never occurred to Harry that Dumbledore might leave. _What will Hogwarts be like without you_?

Whatever she might have said in response to the headmaster's news was forgotten as her family and her lover entered the hall and took their places at the table. The buzzing of student voices lowered slightly and then rose again as everyone's eyes turned from Professor Potter to Professor Snape and back again.

"Well, I see that everyone is behaving as they ought to do. Would you excuse me, Ree?"

Blushing, Harry nodded. She noted that Sirius and Remus were smiling broadly at her, and that Severus seemed . . . pleased, as well.

Abruptly, she rose from the table to walk toward her godfather to find out what was up, but Severus rose, too, and gestured toward the side door through which he had just entered the hall.

A loud "woah" vibrated though the chamber as Professors Potter and Snape exited quickly.

~*~

Rupert Skeeter was embarrassed by a great many things, not the least of which was his mother. His shame over her reporting practices had caused him to flee all the way to the United States to study at a university in Arkansas, not far from the home his father, Sheldon Skeeter, had made in Oklahoma upon the occasion of his divorce when Rupert was just a boy.

Neither man had made himself known to the local wizards in their new towns, and Bentonville, Arkansas, was _not_ on the Floo Network. But a desire to remain out of society had not stopped Rupert's father from encouraging his son to return home for the Assembly.

"Look, boy, I know that your mother is a difficult woman, but she means well where you're concerned. As much as I am loathe to agree with her about _anything_ , I think she is correct in her assessment of your love life: you need a girl to look after you."

The young man, taller than both his parents and graced with an arresting countenance, owing much to the one brilliant green eye and one deep brown eye with which he'd been plagued since an alarming childhood adventure, straightened to his full height of six feet, five inches. "Rubbish, Dad! There are plenty of girls here! I'm not lonely."

"Nonsense!"

Rupert waited for an additional response, but knew it would not be forthcoming. His father had a knack for allowing other people to fill in the blanks in any conversation. It was one of the skills that made the man a successful journalist. Living as a Muggle, Sheldon Skeeter had incurred the ire of several Okie politicians after they had allowed personal information to slip through their lips in order to fill one of his disquieting silences. He was not well-liked at the state house, or in Rupert's at the moment.

"I've just graduated, Dad. I'm looking for work. My home is here. Why should I travel all the way to my old stomping grounds just to let mother try to push me into a career of _her_ choice?"

"That's an excellent question, boy. Why _should_ you interrupt your grand scheme for your future life and allow your family to look out for you?"

"But . . . but I don't have a 'grand scheme'. I just want to do something I'm good at!"

His father beamed at him. "Of _course_ , you do, Rupert. _Exactly_. Go home, and you're bound to meet someone who shares the love of your kind of writing, someone who might be in a position to help you turn that love into a marketable skill. Spell crafting takes words, you know, and there are plenty of poets in the trade. Besides, you know you've been missing home—the Quidditch, the culture, the witches—everything a young wizard needs for his future happiness can be found at the Assembly."

"Sure, that worked for you, didn't it?"

The familiar disapproval of his father flashed across the other man's face. "I didn't raise you to be disrespectful, _son_."

Abashed, the young man quickly replied, "I'm sorry, Dad. That was wrong of me to say. . . . I guess that's Mum talking?"

"Hmph," Sheldon responded, feeling a little tickled, but all the same not liking that his boy would speak ill of his mother.

Rupert knew that it would be useless to cavil about the matter further. It was either go to the Assembly, which secretly did hold some not so slight appeal, or risk his mother's arriving to beard him in his den.

"All right then. I'll go."

Sheldon smiled. "That's my boy."

"If you'll go with me."

"Damnation!" _That_ is _my boy—just as tenacious as his mother_!

It would not be too unpleasant, the older wizard knew. He and Rita had a routine they followed to the satisfaction of them both when they _did_ have occasion to see one another. And they had not seen each other in a very long while.

"So long as it's a short visit, I'm for it," he agreed, chuckling.

Unnerved, Rupert ignored the possible implications of his father's low laughter.

_Ugh_.

~*~

Harry was thoroughly unsettled by Severus' odd behavior in the corridor. He had been rather restrained, pulling slightly away as she had attempted a discreet hug, and said, "I shall be at your door at seven, Professor Potter. . . . I am looking forward to our evening."

Sitting on her desk waiting for her afternoon students to arrive, Harry had her doubts. _Severus didn't look like a man who was "looking forward to our evening"_!

He had looked distinctly uncomfortable, withdrawing from her as he had.

_Does he regret it_? the witch wondered sadly. _Does he regret that people are reacting to us in this way_?

Fortunately, she was unable to indulge herself in her worries because class was about to start.

_Where is everybody? The early birds are usually already here studying by now_.

Screaming laughter issuing from the corridor answered her question.

_A fight_. "Oh, bollocks!" Harry exclaimed as she put on her "professor face" and went to see who had started it.

Miranda Frazier and Martin Finch-Fletchley were squaring off, wands drawn. Their peers formed a ring around the pair.

"Come on, Miranda!" Martin said. "It was only a _joke_. Hurting them won't find her any faster!"

"Get out of my way, Finch-Fletchley," the girl insisted coldly.

Someone well-mixed into the crowd called, "Don't take that guff from a mudblood, Martin. Let her have it!"

A crack reverberated through the hall as each student found him- or herself wandless and rooted in place.

"That kind of language is unacceptable!" Harry thundered, pushing through the frozen press of students.

None of them, of course, was able to respond, but most of them had seen that Professor Potter had bespelled them without the benefit of her wand.

_"We're in for it, now!"_ was the single clearest thought of the crowd.

"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, be good enough to explain to me exactly what is going on."

While Martin gathered his courage to speak, Harry pulled the bespelled floating bundle of wands from the air and tucked it away into a capacious and secret pocket in her robes.

"Some of the lads were having a lark, professor, and Miran—I mean, Frazier—took offense. I thought she might hurt someone, so I was trying to stop her."

_That's not like Miranda at all_ , Harry thought. "What was the nature of this prank, Mr. Finch-Fletchley?"

Martin looked at his feet in mortification. If he spoke of it, he would be getting his friends in two houses into trouble.

"Martin?"

"It's Marazelle Zabini, Ma'am. Some of the kids who didn't believe her . . . her news this morning ambushed her on the way back to the castle and locked . . . and locked her into a closet."

When Professor Potter, who had gone white-faced and rigid, did not speak, Martin continued.

"When Frazier found out, she was steamed, and—"

"Enough!" Harry yelled, releasing her students from her spell. "Go directly to your common rooms and wait."

"Not you!" Harry said, seizing Martin and Miranda with invisible hands as the others fled. In a small, cold voice that promised frozen death if she was lied to, Harry asked, "Where is Marazelle, now?"

"I don't know," Miranda replied. "I was trying to hex Joseph and Carl into telling me when he," she flashed a disgusted glance in Martin's direction, "stopped me."

Harry thought quickly. Joseph Rosier was in Slytherin, and Carl Hudson was in Gryffindor. Both were "pure bloods."

"But Marazelle is, too," she murmured. Turning her attention to the two students before her, she said, "Go and control your house mates until I can deal with this situation properly."

The two students went running in opposite directions without delay as soon as they were released from Professor Potter's spell.

The moment she found herself alone, Harry vomited.

After an awful moment, she picked herself up, uttered a cleaning spell, and removed her map, quickly activating it to find that Marazelle was locked in a janitorial closet not far from Professor Firenze's classroom.

Harry willed herself to run toward the staircase in spite of how shaky she felt. She knew that she had to hurry: Blaise Zabini had told her once that his cousin was a claustrophobe.

~*~

When Harry arrived at the janitorial closet, it was to find it open, and Albus Dumbledore standing on its threshold with an hysterical Marazelle in his arms.

He surrendered the girl to Harry immediately and without comment.

"Oh, Marazelle, I'm so sorry," Harry said, trying to hold back her own tears. "This shouldn't have happened."

The sound of Professor Firenze's door opening caught Harry's attention. She did not want anyone to see the crying girl, lest she become even more embarrassed than she already was.

"Close your eyes," Albus said, laying one hand on each young woman.

Both witches did so without thinking.

When they opened their eyes again it was to find themselves hovering in the middle of a starscape, Professor Dumbledore before them.

"Amusing trick, isn't it?" asked the headmaster.

Marazelle, impressed in spite of her earlier terror and relieved to find herself in so much open space, giggled through the last of her tears.

_Sometimes being a show-off has its uses_.

"You did magic, Professor Dumbledore!"

"Indeed I did, young lady."

"Alb—Headmaster," Harry said, attempting to regain her professorial demeanor, "how did you manage to apparate us to the planetarium?"

"I'm surprised at you. Surely Miss Granger impressed upon you while you were a student that one cannot apparate into, out of, or within the confines of Hogwarts?"

"Yes, but—"

"Miss Zabini, it's time for you to return to your common room. Be good enough to remember only that I let you out of that closet, and that you are no longer afraid of enclosed spaces."

"Yes, Professor."

Slowly, the girl sank to the floor, shook herself a little, and skipped out of the room.

"I wish that I might do the same for you, Ree, but I fear that your distress was not the result of a common phobia."

"It was horrid to think of her trapped like that, Albus," Harry replied, ignoring anything else the headmaster might have meant.

"I know, dear girl."

"Things aren't any better. This wasn't Gryffindor against Slytherin. This was caused by _blood prejudice_ ," Harry spat.

Dumbledore sighed and regarded Ree sympathetically. "Did you truly believe that it would all disappear after Lord Voldemort's demise? The issue of blood is an old one, and Tom exploited it for his own purposes. . . . I'm afraid that Wizarding society is as full of bigots as ever it was."

~*~

"Too bad, that," thought the watchful young man from his room. "I'm glad I'm not having the day _she's_ having, but _gods_ I wish I was doing something useful!"

"Is that so?" asked a rather nondescript-looking man from the boy's now-open door.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"No, you did not. I repeat, is it true that you wish to be doing something useful?"

"Yes, especially if it gets me out of this room!"

"Excellent."

The boy offered his hand to his guest. "I'm sorry, but I don't know my name."

"Ah. Well, you may address me as Master. I shall call you Apprentice. Will that serve?"

"Actually, I don't think it _will_. I'd like to know who you are and what you want from me before I agree to do anything for you, if you don't mind."

"And what if I _do_ mind?"

"Well, I guess . . . I guess we'd have to fight?"

Smiling in such a way as to expose his teeth, the man said, "Perhaps nothing so drastic as that, young lion."

_Fangs! He has fangs!_

"My name is Tancredo, and I am the master of this keep and of the boundary between the Wilds and your own lands. I have kept your kind safe for many generations."

"'My kind'? You mean you're not human?" _Of course he's not, you git. He has fangs_!

"Boy, I have not been human since Isarat put her hands on me."

_Right then. Avoid anyone named Isarat_. "I see."

"No, you do not. But perhaps you will in time. . . . Now then, will you join with me in protecting your world while you are trying to remember your name?"

_Don't just stand there, mate. He might change his mind_. "Yes, _Tancredo_. I will."

Amused, the vampire thought, _I_ may _have to keep this one, Godrixibus_.


	4. Chapter Three: Classification

"Something troubles you?" Blaise Zabini enquired of his lover as she entered the parlor just off the back of the taproom of the Three Broomsticks.

"Many things, as it happens," the proprietress answered, settling into a chair at the table in front of the fire.

Blaise moved to stand behind Rosmerta and began massaging her temples, something that had yet failed to relax his paramour's tongue. "Start with the worst of it."

"Perspective."

"As in, 'it depends on one's'?"

"Exactly."

"I am always most interested in yours, you know. What's troubling you?"

"Agnes Blake's husband has been found."

"Forgive me, but isn't she a widow?"

"Yes."

Blaise took a seat across from Rosmerta and examined her face carefully. As always, her expression was one of bemused interest, and it betrayed nothing to even her most intimate of observers.

"See anything you like?"

_How long did she have to practice that trick before she perfected it_? the man wondered, attempting a bit of misdirection of his own. "How old are you, really?"

The flicker of irritated amusement passed almost too quickly through Rosmerta's eyes for Blaise to catch, but the lady did not deign to answer him.

Her lack of response made Blaise feel foolish . . . and kindled the fury lurking just under his own pleasant demeanor.

"If it's a _young_ witch you're after, you need only wait a few more weeks for the Assembly, pet."

"You know how I hate that sobriquet!"

Noting how her lover's fists were white-knuckled and trembling, the publican responded, "Yes, I _do_."

"Where was Mr. Blake found?"

_Good boy. Let's see how long you can keep your composure_ , today. "The _Quibbler_ reports that the petrified form of Ambrose Blake was found in an unassigned tomb in the Hall of Monuments early last week. The Ministry has released no other details, but dear Balthazar invited Agnes to St. Mungo's to discuss what was to be done with her husband."

" _Uncle_ Balthazar?"

"Of course."

Balthazar Zabini, the older brother of Zoroastrid's late husband, Giancarlo, was the head of the Department of Posthumous Affairs, a position to which he had been _demoted_ thanks to the efforts of Alastor Moody during Lord Voldemort's first rise to power.

The Auror had heard Zabini's name once too often in his questioning of the Death Eaters that he had sent to Azkaban. 

While nothing substantive had ever been proven against the former junior member of the Wizangamot, the shadow of scandal against Balthazar's name had been enough to damn him, at least in part. It said something about the sterling societal position of his family—which had less to do with its age and more to do with its gold—that the wizard had managed to remain in government at all, and it had come as a surprise to _some_ that he had secured himself a position on the Hogwarts' Board of Governors without exercising his connections.

For Balthazar's disgrace, and the subsequent loss of prestige it had wrought, had yet to be forgiven by his family. 

Discretion was the cardinal rule of House Zabini.

"Did you say that they had found Mr. Blake's 'form'?"

"I did. His petrification is not . . . usual, and does not seem to be reversible. Apparently, he shows no sign of being either alive **or** dead. He is simply frozen. Agnes is in great despair."

"Is he . . . _as he was_ before he disappeared?"

"Yes, Ambrose is a monument to his fifty-fourth year. . . . What I am interested to discover is how he came to be in an unassigned tomb. You know from your studies, don't you, that sepulchers are never created without a properly prepared corpse—"

"Of _course_ I do—"

"So who would have had the skill or the power to bewitch Ambrose and break the enchantments guarding the Hall of Monuments to hide him there?"

Somewhat churlishly, Blaise asked, "Would you like me to contact Uncle Balthazar and ask him what he knows?"

"That would be kind of you."

Blaise exhaled sarcastically. "Perfectly polite—you don't like me very much, do you?"

"Ridiculous boy—I adore you."

"Why must you slight me so, lately?"

"Have I hurt your feelings, young one? It was _you_ who made a point of asking me my age. Did not Tagliaferro ever tutor you in the things one ought never ask a lady?"

The wizard shuddered, shutting out the image of his old tutor having anything remotely at all to do with a woman—or, for that matter, a man—and considered the witch before him.

It was not the issue of Rosmerta's years that made her so intriguing; it was the fact that, though she looked like a mature Dresden figurine—all sun-kissed hair and stormy blue eyes and plump lush curves—she had a well of violence boiling black and red and waiting just under the alabaster perfection of her skin that excited Blaise by virtue of its very familiarity.

But instead of telling his lover this, he said, "I think that you scare me."

Rosmerta repaid Blaise's confession by smothering him in unkind peals of laughter in which the wizard could almost feel the stings of angry bees as if caught between their own nectar and his skin.

"And so I _should_."

When he could breathe again, the young man made as hasty an exit as etiquette and his pride would allow, repeating the second-most important rule of his House to himself as a balm: _A Zabini remembers everything_ , forever.

~*~

A short while later, Alastor Moody entered the room without knocking. "I saw the boy leave, Rosmerta. You shouldn't tease him."

"Why not? I enjoy it."

Moody's magical eye rolled around to peer sharply at the being before him. "Remind me again why I don't kill you?"

"Because you lack the requisite imagination."

The Auror had no response to that other than, "Do you have the text I'm looking for, you old bloodsucker?"

"Careful, Alastor. Such familiarity might end in your _further_ disfigurement."

Moody had never had much luck talking to women, and he was not about to reminisce about lost battles with _this_ one; he had seen Rosmerta in fighting form—just after it was too late. "I apologize, Madame Rosmerta."

"Your ability to survive is legend. . . . Tell me, is it true that you've seen your death?"

"Would I tease you if it weren't?"

"I think you might."

Moody grunted.

"Now that we've dispensed with the pleasantries, may I offer you a drink?"

In response, the grizzled old man removed his ubiquitous flask and toasted his hostess before taking a deep swig from it.

"How delectably stubborn you are, Moody. I've a rule against poisoning guests."

"That may be, but I'll not provide you with a ready exception to your policy. Now, where is my book?"

Rosmerta gestured at the little table above which a concrescence of dust motes was swirling into the form of a heavy dark tome. " _The Grimoire Nigromantia_ , third copy."

"You have all three copies?"

"No, only the first and third."

Moody decided not to touch upon the subject of the whereabouts of the second copy. "Leaving a book like this laying about—your security leaves much to be desired!"

Without a trace of irritation in her voice, the proprietress replied, "As does your favorite Auror."

"You _did_ volunteer to keep an eye on him."

"True, but the task becomes increasingly annoying. That one needs killing."

"There are more than he that do, Madame Rosmerta. Give it time."

"It's a joy to find ourselves in accord, Master Moody."

"Harumph."

~*~

"—can't you see _sense_ , Ree. This is a date. Of _course_ you should show a little—"

Harry, standing in front of a large mirror hiding her head in her hands, spun to face Hermione. "A _little_ skin," she interrupted, gesturing at her bosom. "You call this a _little_?"

The haruspex looked at her friend in mock horror. "'Why Harry Potter, I didn't know that you had breasts'," she said, indicating her head in the direction of the slight swell of décolleté that rose over the bodice of the other witch's dress. "'I couldn't see past the great, hulking Death Eater you were with to see them'!"

"Stop that, Hermione!"

"Well, _really_ , Ree, that's what's actually bothering you, isn't it?"

_How can she say that_? "How can you say that? I'm not ashamed of Severus!"

"But you _are_ worried about what other people might say about him because of you, aren't you?"

"Sod other people!" Harry spat, throwing herself onto the sofa across from the bed. "I just don't want . . . I just—oh, hell! . . . This is going to be a circus."

Hermione sat next to Harry and gave her thigh a reassuring pat-a-pat-pat-pat and a squeeze. "Look, Ree, if you didn't go to such lengths to avoid people, they might learn to respect your privacy. You can't hide up here forever."

"I'm not hiding—am I?"

_I'll just ignore that, shall I_? "Besides, do you really think that people are going to force themselves on you while you're being escorted by _Severus Snape_? He'd _hex_ the first person who asked for your autograph."

"Or he'd glare at them to death," Harry said, smiling.

"That's the spirit. Now stand up and take a proper look at yourself."

"Oh, all right."

Harry's dress, despite being cut low, managed a demure drape of green silk that rode gently over the witch's curves, save where it gathered into an embroidered lace bodice of darker green. Madam Malkin's exquisite needlework graced the ends of the long sleeves, as well, in cuffs that just passed Harry's wrists.

Hermione thought that the lacework made Ree's fingers look mysterious. _Oh I_ am _a romantic_ fool, she thought harshly of herself, as she pushed aside her feelings of loneliness and said, "You look lovely."

"Do you think that Severus will like me this way?"

Brightening, Hermione giggled. "Well, perhaps not enough to molest you in a corridor."

"Oh, gods! Does everybody know?"

Hermione firmly put the society column of the afternoon edition of _The Daily Prophet_ out of her mind. "Ree, the people who care about you have known for quite some time. No one else's opinion matters."

_Right. We'll see how_ that _works out_ , Harry thought but did not say for fear of appearing ungrateful. "Thanks, Mione—for the dress—and, well, _everything_."

"You're welcome. Now come sit down so that I can charm your braid into something suitably elegant to this occasion."

~*~

"But it's a Tuesday. How is it possible that you don't have a table on a _Tuesday_?" Rita Skeeter, who was rather used to being seated immediately in this particular establishment, demanded of the maître d' of the Gryphon's Foote. _Sheldon and Rupert are coming tonight. I have to take them out and show them how_ well _I've done for myself_. "I have family coming, Hunter. You simply must have a table!"

A striking young man who was without a doubt one of the Weasley boys stepped out of the bar and over to where Rita was arguing.

"My name is Bill Weasley, Ma'am. Is there something I might do for you?"

_You could give me an interview_ , the witch thought without hesitation, but did not say because she was busy twisting her face into an expression of a damsel-in-distress. "Oh, Mr. Weasley, your reputation is known to me. You've made quite a career for yourself."

"Thank you, _Mrs_.?"

"Skeeter. Rita Skeeter. I had no idea you'd returned from foreign parts," she told him in the manner of someone who felt that it was the other party's fault.

"I'm on a bit of a vacation, you see, and waiting for . . . a friend."

The witch's eyes lit up with a greedy light. _A 'friend', is it? A scoop, more like!_ "And are you dining here," she asked with a malicious glare for the maître d', "in spite of the lack of tables?"

"As a matter of fact, Fleur is running a bit late, so I have some time to catch up on the latest gos—news—if you'd care to join me?"

_Fleur_ , Rita thought. _Fleur_ . . . . "Fleur _Delacour_? That is to say, won't your young lady mind the intrusion?"

_About a paycheck's worth. Yes, thank you—she'll mind it terribly_. "No, she won't mind it at all. My girlfriend frequently adds bits from your column to her owls so that I don't feel _completely_ cut off from the London scene." _Gods, I sound like an utter prat_. "I know she'll be delighted to meet you, and, after we've had our drinks, you're welcome to keep our table for your party."

_His girlfriend. His_ table. "Yes! I mean, that's very generous of you, Mr. Weasley— _Bill_. I'd love to join you."

_Mission accomplished_ , the curse-breaker thought as he and the Skeeter woman were led to a table situated far from the entrance. Someone _owes me a favor_.

But what were friends for? Bill had not been at the restaurant ten minutes when a rather fetching waitress had whispered to him that the infamous Severus Snape had reserved the Terrace for the evening. And who else would that wizard be escorting but Ree Potter?

Charlie wrote Bill letters, too.

~*~

Narcissa Malfoy efficiently unfurled the scroll she'd just received as part of her duties as the co-mistress of ceremonies for the Courtship Committee of the Assembly—and promptly threw it across the room.

"I will kill him!"

"Whatever is the matter, Cissa?" Zoroastrid Zabini, the witch's . . . friend and co-mistress asked calmly.

"Snape! _That_ is his registration for the rituals!"

"And why," Zoroastrid, bending to pick up the discarded scroll asked, "should that discompose you?" She perused the parchment quickly. "Ah."

Although Snape had not declared himself as interested in any particular person, the nature of his enrollment in the festival—all private rites to be conducted in the presence of family and officials only—left little doubt of the wizard's desire not to mingle with the general body of potential partners.

"He has someone in mind."

"Someone?"

"Ree Potter, then. Again, why are you bothered, my love? Surely you did not expect Draco to submit a Claim for her?"

"Just because your son has failed to tempt the girl does not mean that Draco will not succeed there. He's within his rights to court her."

"Barely. Ree Potter is only a distant relation of yours by virtue of being your cousin's godchild, a tenuous connection to be indulged for the sake of affection, but nothing more. And as I recall, your son loves nothing at present."

Narcissa grabbed her lover's arm only to find Tagliaferro's on her shoulder. She did not flinch.

Without looking at her servant, Zoroastrid tilted her head in a gesture of dismissal. The vampire, noted for his loyalty, but not his obedience, merely returned to his chair in the recess of the room.

"I don't care if he wants her or not. Draco will do as he's told. . . . I want Potter in my House."

"In your _House_?" snapped the other witch, jerking her arm free with a lack of her customary grace.

Instantly, Narcissa's face composed itself into the beguiling expression that she used to subdue Zoroastrid's rare shows of temper. "Darling . . . _darling_ , surely _you_ understand how much my family has suffered since Lucius' . . . death. I want Draco to be proud of his name again, and to take the place that is rightfully his."

"And where might that be?"

Narcissa laughed, a beautiful, brittle sound. "Why, by his wife's side, working toward the betterment of our society."

"Just because you would have Draco win her, does not mean that Ree would wish it."

"True, but he should have his opportunity to try for her," Narcissa breathed into Zoroastrid's mouth. "The Malfoy wiles are well known to many."

_I know_. Withdrawing a bit from the other witch, Zoroastrid said, "Then let us hope that Miss Potter chooses to participate in the rites."

_If she wants Severus_ , Narcissa thought, _she'll have to_.

~*~

It was nearing seven o'clock, and Sirius and Remus were sitting on their sofa and poring over _Whistlespit's Guide to Courtship Rites in the Moderne Age_. They also had taken out the Potter genealogical chart and myriad other documents.

"I can't believe he's going about it in this blasted formal way, Remus."

"When has Severus taken a casual approach to anything, love?"

"Point. But Harry won't care about courtship rituals and ceremonial declarations. It's not as though she has any doubts about _her_ feelings."

"Sirius, the festival 'games' were designed to prove to worried parents that their children were well-matched. I think Severus is just trying to do what he can to show people that he's not taking advantage of Ree."

"Again, I'm not certain that Harry will appreciate that fact, however noble of Severus it is to try and spare her from the outcry that their marriage will cause."

Remus snorted.

"What's so funny?"

"We are. We're idiots."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, here we are sorting through this dusty book hoping not to find that any other House has a right to submit a Claim of Courtship for Ree when we don't even know if she'll want to participate in the rites. And, what's more," Remus continued, holding up a hand to prevent interruption, "we've already got her married to Severus!"

"Why does that make us idiots?"

"He hasn't even asked her, yet."

"I should hope not—they're only just going on their first real date!"

"That is why all of this," Remus said, indicating the general disorder, "is ridiculous."

"I shouldn't worry about it. There's no suspense in this scenario."

"Still . . . ."

"'Still' what?"

"A girl likes to be asked."

"Really?" Sirius asked, shoving _Whistlespit_ to the floor and straddling Remus' thighs.

"Geroff! I'm working here!"

"So am I lover. So am I."

The two men were naked before the clock finished chiming seven o'clock.

~*~

"I insist that you remove those dreadful garments, or I will summon Peeves."

The Potions master, wearing his standard black dress robes over his evening attire, spun angrily toward the hovering apparition. "Baron, if you insist on plaguing me with that poltergeist, I'll see to it that—"

A knock on the door surprised him. His students rarely bothered him in the evenings unless they had made an appointment. Opening the door, he was further disturbed to find Argyle Slizer standing face to face with him. It had irritated him a great deal when the boy had grown to his height.

"What _is_ it, Mr. Slizer?"

"Good evening, Professor Snape. I have the clothing you requested," the young man said, handing over a box.

Summoning his every ounce of will, Severus refused to snap. "And what clothing might that be?"

"Didn't you send me a note asking if you might borrow a formal winter dress robe in our house colors?"

Behind him, something crashed to the floor of his workroom. _Damn that meddling spectre_! "Indeed I _did_ , Mr. Slizer. I shall return the robes to you in good order upon the morrow. Good evening."

Snape shut the door in the boy's face before Slizer could respond and strode toward his bedroom. _I will exorcize both of them_ —after _I change_.

Examining himself in the mirror, Severus was rather relieved by the effect the stylish robes had on his finely tailored, though rather plain, black suit.

_I_ approach _the idea of dashing, at least. . . . Well, the clothes do, at any rate_. "It will have to do."

"Yes, yes, Professor Snappy, it will! You is going to be late if you don't leave soon!"

"Dobby! I thought I told you that I never wanted to _see_ you in my quarters again!" Severus yelled, examining his hair and wondering if anything else might be done with it.

The constant stream of irritants to which he had been subjected all afternoon was beginning to seem suspicious.

The house elf disappeared immediately—with about two inches of hair from the back of the Potions master's head, which added a slight wave to his coiffure.

"Professor Dumbledore said for Dobby to help. You looks good now. All nice for Harry Potter!"

_Albus. I should have known_ , thought Severus as he left his quarters. _I wonder if you ever tempted Minerva to_ reverse _her Zuccarum Innocuous spell_?

Arriving at Harry's door, Severus suddenly felt nervous about his impending outing, and mentally thanked the headmaster for being such a good friend as he tried to regain his composure.

~*~

"You're welcome, dear boy," Albus murmured, looking up from the reports he was reading as if he could see the other wizard before him. It relieved him a bit to know that he was not without all Sight, but he did not dwell on the feeling. There was much work to be done before the next meeting of the Order.

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter Four: Interstitial Interventions

Harry panicked when the first knock sounded on the door to her rooms, so she reflexively opened another one and stepped through it—and the snowscape swallowed the echoes of Severus' arrival.

"Damn your omniscience, Albus!"

The wizard had promised her that, if she would not learn to understand the Gift, it would surprise her at the most inconvenient of moments.

Harry did not quite regret ignoring Albus' warning; after all, she _did_ feel completely out of her depth this evening. The day's events had stirred disturbing, long-quiescent currents of emotion and memory that threatened to pull her away from her painstakingly constructed island of calm.

The witch was _not_ going into the water when she was not certain if she could swim, and she _refused_ to believe the great wizard Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore's assurances that her ability to suppress the power was, in itself, a measure of her control of it.

_Wait. You're thinking of two separate issues._

But that did not matter, be it her feelings or her supposed power, because "Hermione was wrong. I _can_ hide myself—I'm _that_ weak."

The young woman was too preoccupied with her exercise in self-loathing to notice the massive tree pushing itself up through the newly pooling slush behind her, or the murder of crows that had swooped down out of the gray sky to darken its branches.

~*~

"Cor! What are those?" the young man, who had settled for being referred to as "boy," asked as a soldier handed him an oozing, lumpy, leather-like bag.

"Ya throw 'em. Black'n's cause smoke. Red'n's cause fire. Blue'n's cause the air to _go_. Put 'em in your knapsack, boy—carefully."

"And they ooze why?"

"I just pack'n'hack, boy. I ain't no wizard."

"I'm a wizard."

"Yeah, I was afeared o' that. Won't help you out there," the squat, stinking man said, gesturing toward the castle gate.

Having seen the surging animals from his room once he had learnt to use his window properly, the young man knew the old-timer was probably right. He shuddered in contemplation of the battle to come, but knew he would fight. _You don't just sit on your arse and let the monsters come_ , he told himself with an excellent approximation of bracing firmness.

"So, am I in your unit, then?"

The soldier grunted. "No. The master wants you to get 'customed to things first. You're for a scoutin' party.

"Then why am I carrying these?"

"You'll be marchin' in the middle. Gives a man time to decide."

"I'm afraid I—"

"Now look, boy, I ain't got time for trainin', but I'll tell you this: if you're being rushed, fire is good—keeps 'em back, like. Smoke is for ambushin' 'em, and you only use them air-stealers when the mongrels are amongst yer own men—but call out, like, first, so's everyone can catch a breath."

This speedy list of instructions was not particularly comforting. "Um, how long do you hold your breath for?"

The soldier looked at the boy as if he was the worst kind of useless. "Why, until ye've killed 'em, o' course!" and then went muttering away to pack the next recruit.

_That fellow looks pretty scared_ , the boy thought, backing into a stand of swords.

"Would Sir like one?" asked a tiny creature with huge eyes and floppy ears. It was wearing what appeared to be a bloodied sack of some kind.

A voice from behind the boy said, "I already have one for him, Flibbet."

The creature began polishing a blade with hurried care.

"Tancredo."

"Boy."

"I suppose this would be the time to tell you that I don't actually know how to use a sword?"

The vampire smiled, and suddenly the boy found himself in the garden in which he had, of late, spent most of his time.

"Your . . . friend left something for you here."

"Oh, yeah? That was kind of him. . . . Why?" _And who is he? And why did he bring me here? And—_

Tancredo murmured something unintelligible and unsavory sounding, and a groaning began to rise with a large stone from the earth. There was a hilt sticking out of it.

"This is a joke, right?"

"I assure you, boy, that safe-guarding enchanted, familial blades is not something I find amusing. I did not put the weapon there, your . . . Albus did."

"Is that the old bloke who came to visit me before?"

Tancredo laughed. _Yes, Godrixibus, I think I_ might _insist that he stay—if his blood is true_.

Not all of his friend's progeny had been worth the care and feeding, as Tancredo well-remembered.

"The stone makes a convenient sheath—it prevents rusting."

The boy reached over and grasped the hilt. "If you say so," he replied, pulling the weapon out of its protection without strain.

_This bodes well_. "Oh, I _do_. Welcome to my keep, Ronald Bilius Weasley."

~*~

Harry was brooding in the solitude when a single caw alerted her that she was not alone. The down of her neck rising, she spun into an unwelcome wall of caustic crow castigation.

 _Oh, Merlin. No! I can't make birds here, and I'm definitely going to need a big bird—or a dragon!_ "Stop! Stop!"

The tree before her was filled with hundreds of birds who flapped at her in a sinister speaking fashion to match their shrieks.

"What do you _want?_ "

"Pansy's head in my lap, but I'll settle for the end of this ostrich routine of yours, Madam _Hero_."

It did not occur to Harry to find it odd that Neville was suddenly there. "It's not like you to settle."

"How would _you_ know, Harry. You're hardly an expert on _my_ tastes."

"That's not fair! You turned me down," she replied, calmer now that it was quiet again.

"Yeah, well, I'm not Blaise Zabini, love," the young man parried with unmistakable affection as he pulled his friend into a chaste embrace. "And I don't fancy birds when they're too drunk to know who's in front of them."

"Always the gentleman."

Neville stepped back and looked Harry up and down with frank male appreciation, but without heat. "You clean up nicely. I hope that's not for Tall, Dark, and Disturbed."

"I don't see Blaise anymore."

"You never actually _did_."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That you have disastrous taste in men, dearest."

"You never . . . really . . . _wanted_ me, did you, Nev?"

"Just for a bit after the Change, but then, I know I'm not the only bloke who wanked to your unexpected attributes."

Harry blushed.

"Cute, Potter. You're shy."

"No, Longbottom. I'm horrified."

"Doesn't matter now, though. Besides, Pansy was a little demon. I only ever think of her, now."

_Best not to mention_ Fred, _then_. "Spare me the details, you freak."

Neville laughed good-naturedly, and winter gave way for spring. "Let's sit down. You and I need to chat."

"About this odd avian enterprise of yours?" Harry asked, gesturing toward the birds perched on the now fragrant boughs of a robust apple tree.

"Nah, they're just trickery. I think it's time for my favorite parselmouth to learn to talk about snakes."

~*~

"Anything else you can tell me about those . . . things?" Ronald asked the experienced soldier to whom he had been nervously speaking.

There were men on the battlements turning the wheel to the massive gate of the castle. It was almost time to leave.

"When we push through the horde, don't look at them too closely. Just slice on through."

"Seems reasonable advice, mate."

"And don't go making any friends here. People die."

Ronald swallowed—hard. "No time to attend the funerals, then?"

"No funerals."

_Splendid. I'm about to die without being able to recall the face of my own mother, and she wouldn't care even if she knew—how else do you explain 'Bilius'?_

~*~

"Names are important, Harry. Don't dismiss my theory out of hand."

The two friends were sitting with their backs against Neville's tree, eating apples and arguing.

"Draco never liked it, but I don't mind 'Ree'. How could Blaise giving me a nickname be anything to do with a spell?"

"It might not have anything to do with a spell, but to allow a person to name you can give that person power over your self-perception. And by now you ought to understand how important it is for you to perceive yourself _clearly_."

The witch craned her neck to peer quizzically at her companion. "That's just philosophy, Neville, not magic."

"How is it that with Hermione after you to study all the time you never did any better in Magical Theory?"

"The textbook had my picture plastered all over it. I never made it past page eleven."

"That's no _excuse_ , Harry," Neville said, chucking his core away from himself with some force.

She shrugged. "Blaise likes me."

"Blaise covets you because Draco was preoccupied with you to distraction, and that one never shared well."

_Neither of them did, as I recall_ , Harry thought. She spat a piece of apple into her hand, the ghost of an old hurt rising in her throat to choke her appetite. "He doesn't want me anymore."

Though she did not specify the "he," Neville understood that she meant Draco. "Of course not. He's dead."

"No, he isn't."

"I didn't mean Blaise."

"I didn't, either."

"What?" the boy asked, shooting to his feet and pulling Harry up alongside him.

"Draco's not dead. Don't you know these things here?"

"How would I? The last time I had any truck with the living, it was by bird."

Harry just looked at him.

"I sent one of the crows to get help for you when you were—sick—after the attack."

Her face softened from confusion to wonder. "Neville, that's amazing. Thank you. I didn't know."

"Don't thank me. Tell me what you mean by saying Draco's alive. He took the Dark Mark. He _has_ to be dead."

"He apparently never got around to it, Nev. Draco's been in a 'respite facility' in France for some time now."

"No. I refuse to believe that. It was planned. Blaise told us. Draco told _you_. This is bad."

"This is ridiculous. There were pictures of Draco in the paper after the war. There have been pictures of him since. Our spell worked. If he had been marked, he would be dead. He's not. Don't get yourself all worked up."

But the wizard wasn't composed at all. He began tearing apples off of the tree and hurling them against the browning grass. _How can she not remember? What's wrong? Someone must have . . . blocked her memory, but_ why? "What did I _miss_? What did I do _wrong_?" he screamed.

Harry did not know what else to do as Neville destroyed his creation. She watched him helplessly. Rain began to fall in syrupy droplets that pooled thickly at the worried corners of her mouth. Tasting copper, the witch knew that the metallic tinge to the precipitation meant blood. She blinded herself by looking up, and then retched.

~*~

Ignoring the scene of carnage behind him, Ronald was grateful to find himself alive at the top of the slope his squad had been making for. When all of his comrades had joined him, they collapsed into an exhausted, begored heap. After a certain point, their foes had stopped following them as though they did not wish to stray too far from the keep. He did not care why.

Ronald had not listened to his former . . . tutor. He had looked into more than one of the faces of the ogres who had died at his hand. Their eyes had been very like those of the odd little weapons keeper back at the castle. But it had not been a desire to be useful that had shone from their orbs.

Valiantly _not_ answering his body's call to vomit, the boy could not stop his tears.

There had been fear in the faces of those creatures. Fear, fury, and more than a frisson of _intelligence_. This was not, as Tancredo had told him, a culling. This was an effort to eradicate a _race_.

"Get the bits and blood off yerselves 'afore it dries, men," rasped their commander. "'T'won't do to let blood call to blood."

~*~

Harry could not think past her gown, which was darkened by the ichor of Neville's grief . . . or fear . . . or anger. It was hard to decipher what he was feeling, but she knew that the bloodstorm had to be stopped before he turned his little corner of the Afterlife into the _Fifth_ Great Hell.

 _Focus_ , she instructed herself. _Let the power come to you_.

Drawing the litany out of a part of her mind that she had hoped never to revisit, she began to chant.

The clammy, rubbery rivulets of red magic shivered in the air and were reformed, flowing to Harry almost instantly. She was not surprised.

She had done this before.

"[This is not mine]," the witch called to the power in a Parseltongue translation of the ancient wizarding dialect in which the Grimoire Nigromantia had been written. "[It is separate from myself. I will not permit it to sustain me, but will draw it inside the edges of my Self so that I might control it. . . . This is not mine]," she began again.

As the crimson curtain became a carpet, and then an indistinct light before appearing to coalesce inside of Harry's belly, she heard Neville's voice.

"Brace yourself. I'm pretty sure this will hurt," he said. Without further preamble he thrust his hand into her mid-section, clasped the hardening shard within her, and clawed the blood jewel encasing his magic out of her. " _Cruoris Innocuous_!"

The faceted bit of glinting nastiness began to dim, flaking harmlessly through the wizard's fingers.

The first thing that Harry noticed when she could breath again was that she was clean.

~*~

"This is filthy work," Ronald muttered.

Having cleansed themselves as best they could, he and the other soldiers were set up in an outpost of crumbling masonry that stank of shit and other offal. The dirt floor of the "room"—for there was no roof to shield the party from the elements—was strewn with charred pelts and other detritus. A large fire had been kindled in the center of the space, and a spit had been constructed over eldritch flames. Ronald wanted to ask about that, but was too disturbed by the hiss of fat dripping from the skinned creature's carcass that was to be dinner to question anyone about the flame.

_I'm not eating that_ , he thought, remembering how his last ogre had seemed to call to its fellows as it had fallen underfoot.

With a heavy thud, the commander threw his bulk down next to Ronald and spared the boy a look. "Filthy work. Aye, so it is—and plenty of it, lad!"

"How can you murder them like that? How can you _eat_ them?"

The other men laughed, an ugly sound.

"It ain't murder, boy. It's war," his commander said roughly, but not without sympathy. "You'll get used to it. We did."

"Do you know why they hate us? Have they ever said?"

There was an abrupt silence.

"Those monsters ain't people, boy. They don't _say_ anything. Didn't Erasmus explain things to you proper?"

"Erasmus?"

"Me brother, the one as gave you your kit."

"All he told me was what these nasty things did," Ronald replied, opening his pack to show the commander the odd weapons. "And when to use them."

"That's Erasmus for ye, always stickin' to the basics."

Ronald looked at the other man in perturbation.

"It's like this, see. The ogres 'ave been comin' for longer than anyone can remember, boy. They don't build nothin', nor grow anythin', and they _don't_ speak."

"But—"

"Now that you've asked, you'd better listen good. . . . All those critters do is eat. An' they," he paused to point at the spit, "don't put our flesh to the fire 'afore rippin' into it with their nasty sharp teeth!"

"That's right!" someone shouted. "The animals!"

He did not say so, but Ronald knew that the ogres built fires. He had seen the beings milling around them from his room in the keep.

Two men entered, one just behind the other. The commander stood to receive them.

"What'd ye see?"

The first man reported that "the fissure is still closed, sir, an' it looks about as we expected. The group seems trapped by the harmonics."

_Harmonics?_ Ronald thought.

"Well now," the commander said, "you'll get to see some real monster-stickin' soon!"

"Yessir," answered the second man. "It's pretty eerie, an' that's the truth. I wouldn't want ta move into that sound even if I was stuck with the ogres mesself!"

"We just might have to join the attack squad, men!" the commander said. "And you," he continued, looking back at Ronald, "will get plenty o' use out of them wizard balls."

Everyone stood and cheered lustily.

Ronald squared his shoulders and gathered his courage. He was about to disobey an unethical order.

~*~

Sitting under the dried husk of the large splinter that had been Neville's tree, Harry finished her tale of what had occurred after the Final Battle—reconstructing events primarily from what she had been told upon coming out of her coma. The subject of Draco and Blaise had been firmly dropped, though the witch knew her friend was disturbed about it.

"And how did the Ministry handle not being consulted in our plans?" a subdued Neville asked.

"Publicly they were all praise—there's a statue to you now in the Garden of Peace."

"The _what?_ "

"It's a memorial for those who fought and died."

"You in it?"

Harry looked embarrassed. "I'm afraid so."

"Glad I missed all that rot. And privately?" he pressed.

"There were questions. But after that one meeting between Minister Weasley—"

Neville's face brightened as he interrupted Harry. "Yeah? That's great news!"

"And myself—it _is_ nice for Mr. Weasley—all official inquiries ceased. Essentially, the Department of Information Disbursal has put it about that we were all in accord as to how to proceed against Voldemort."

"Politics," Neville said with evident distaste.

"Yes."

"So, you must be besieged by well-wishers."

"Actually, Albus has been very helpful there. And I don't get out much since becoming a professor, so it's not an issue."

"Then why are you all dressed up?"

Harry blushed. She was not sure how her friend would take the news of her involvement with the Potions master. "I have a date."

"Where's Charlie taking you if you 'don't get out much'?"

When she did not reply to his question, Neville chuckled. "Sweet Merlin, it's about time!"

"What's so funny?"

"Tell George Weasley to give my share of the bet to Pansy, will you?"

"What bet?"

"You're finally shagging Snape!"

_They bet about us?_ "You _bet_ about us?"

Neville just kept laughing.

"Who did you bet with, Longbottom?"

"You'll have to ask . . . George," he spluttered as he caught a glimpse of Harry's expression. "He was . . . responsible for the pot."

"Was he."

Beginning to recover his composure, Neville said, "Well, we did ask Madame Rosmerta, but she wouldn't hear of it for some reason." He sat up and wiped his tears of mirth away. "Odd, that—she usually loves a good wager."

_Git_ , Harry thought vehemently. "Of course Rosmerta wouldn't have wanted to—didn't you know that she and Severus—oh, never mind!"

"You can't be serious—Snape and Rosmerta had a . . . thing?"

Harry was indignant. "Why is it okay for me to be—we're not shagging!—seeing Severus, but it's so difficult for you to imagine her with him?"

"I don't know. I guess I just assumed that she'd have better taste than you."

Harry pushed the now-standing Neville back into the withered grass on his bum. "It's a good thing you're already dead."

Looking up at her, the boy's expression turned to seriousness. "Yeah, I wouldn't have wanted to make you angry when I was alive, not truly."

A warning prickled up her spine. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I saw what you were capable of when you were angry."

~*~

Ronald stood in the small garden that he had come to consider his own as he waited for Tancredo. After successfully preventing his own battlefield execution for treason, he had accompanied the commander and what was remaining of the scouting party back to the castle. Its numbers had been decreased by two, and the rest of the men in it bore wounds of varying degrees of severity as well as the bodies of their fellows.

Ronald was fairly certain that he was going to die. He thought that the vampire might know more tricks than the men he had fought.

_But that doesn't matter. I won't be a part of this butchery_.

"So, kingling, what can I explain to you?" Tancredo whispered from a breath's length behind the boy's left shoulder.

Ronald started and jumped away from the being, drawing his sword and turning as he did so. "I didn't hear you come in."

Tancredo inclined his head toward the blade. "Yes, do clutch that over-forged metallic splinter if it gives you comfort."

The mocking words made Ronald feel foolish. But he did not relent his ready stance.

"Your arm must be tired, Ronald Bilius."

_I should have known better_ , the boy thought as his appendages began to feel like heavy lead pipes. "No!" he ordered himself, shaking off the sensation. "You're only guiding my thoughts because I'm not guarding them. I won't let you do it!"

As he spoke the words, his arms began to feel like themselves again, but he decided to sheathe his weapon anyway.

"I see that not every Defense Against the Dark Arts professor that Albus has employed has been without merit. I'm pleased with you, Ronald Bilius. You may defend yourself before I pass judgment on your lack of obedience."

"I'm a volunteer in this army, you know."

"Yes, you _are_. You elected to follow orders of your own free will."

After a tense moment, Ronald asked, "What's Hogwarts?"

~*~

"I noticed it while we were studying Advanced Counter Charms at the novitiate. Zabini already knew the defenses to everything Moody exposed us. He had been trained in the Dark Arts."

"Blaise's family is full of dark wizards, Neville," Harry said patiently. "It's not surprising that he'd have absorbed some of what they knew. That doesn't make him a dark wizard."

"Knowing about fell magic doesn't, but using it does."

Harry shuddered. _I know where this is going_. "He never used it except to help."

"Don't be so feeble-minded, Harry! It was a conscious decision on Zabini's part to set that squad of Death Eaters alight—or were you too preoccupied with your own adventures in charcoal to notice?"

"Please don't, Neville. I don't want to talk about it," Harry said, standing up.

"Why not? You did murder those men. You know you did."

"I did no such thing."

Neville's face held both compassion and understanding as he persevered. "You _did_. Those men put their hands on Zabini, and it made you angry. He was _yours_ , after all."

"That's not how it happened," Harry said, her tears forcing themselves through squeezed eyelids.

The boy reached up and jerked her down into his arms none too gently, but loosened his grip as she began to sob outright. "Dearest, we both know what you did, and we both know why. The story you told Ron and the Aurors about having made a mistake was a _lie_. . . . I had no idea that you had made yourself believe it."

"You said it yourself. Using dark magic is what makes a person evil. Only a monster would kill because it pleased her to do so—I'm no better than Bellatrix Lestrange!"

"Look at me."

"No."

"I'll call the birds back."

Harry looked at Neville at once.

"Have you done anything remotely like that since the first time?"

"No!"

"Good. Now say what you did. Tell the truth to yourself."

"What good will that do? You know what I am."

"That's the point, love. _I_ do. _You_ don't, so say it. Tell me what happened in the clearing now."

Neville's tone brooked no refusal. "They drew their wands on Blaise . . . ."

"And?"

"He didn't notice, and one of them got close enough to where he had landed to grab his robes. I . . . ."

"You?"

"I cast the first spell that came to mind."

"Really? You used your wand? What did you cast?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Neville, I told you what happened. Now leave me alone!"

A crow flew from the tree to the wizard's shoulder.

"I hate you, Neville."

"Tell me about that _spell_ , Harry."

She pulled away and leapt to her feet, furious now, but controlled. "I didn't use my wand! I wanted them dead, so I killed them, all right?"

"How?"

"Why do you _care?_ "

"Caw!" came the cry of a crow from overhead.

The one on Neville's shoulder just stared at the witch.

She was not sure why the noise bothered her so much, but the call forced the truth from her at last. "I pulled all the fear I was feeling into my eyes, all the remnants of power from the spells that had been cast, and focused it in my gaze at the Death Eaters. My one thought was that they should smoulder into dust and disappear, and they did."

"Good, Harry. I'm glad you _do_ know the truth."

"Is that why you played with me?"

"I wasn't playing with you, love. I wanted you to see it, to hear it."

She fell into the crackling grass next to her friend and leaned against him. "To see what?"

"That fear is what motivated you—fear for another," he said, stroking her hair. "When I watched Zabini call the flame and torch his victims, the only thing I saw in his face was _pleasure_."

~*~

Master Tancredo of the Wilds was quite satisfied that young Weasley would do well for himself. The strength, character, and heart of Godrixibus had bred true in the boy. Now the vampire felt that it was time to allow him his memory, and then to send him home.

 _He's quite the philosopher, that one, but his humanity will not be of service here_.

Tancredo had little time for sophists.

"Ah, Vedette Aurelia 'Jasper'," he acknowledged the woman who had just entered his council chamber, "I have a commission for you."

_And though you have served me well, young one, your retirement from my service is at hand_.

~*~

"You're welcome. Now come sit down so that I can charm your braid into something suitably elegant to this occasion," Hermione said—again.

The sense of déjà vu rolled over Harry so hard that she swayed.

Hermione looked at her in suspicion. "Have you been so nervous that you forgot to eat?"

"No. I think I may just be nervous," she responded, taking her friend's outstretched arm, and trying to reorient herself.

Hermione settled Harry into a chair and began to unplait her hair. "You needn't worry, you know. You _will_ be on the Terrace."

Harry allowed the gentle stroking of the soft-bristled brush to soothe her. "You didn't have any money in the pool, did you?"

"How did you know about _that_ awful bet?"

"A wrangler of large birds told me."


	6. Chapter Five: The Entire Terrace

Morgan Malkin was justifiably proud of his dining establishment. Located in Diagon Alley, but referred to as being "in" London by many of his more pretentious clients—as if the perverse affectation of a close knowledge of that Muggle city made one more impressive in some way—the Gryphon's Foote was happily situated near Gringott's. Malkin was able to cater to the merchants of the area in the morning at his al fresco café, the patrons of the bank—one assumed the goblins carried in from home—and the civil servants of the Ministry at lunch in the downstairs dining room, the society witches and their beaux in the upstairs dining room at tea time, and the crème of the wizarding world in the entirety of the restaurant at dinner.

The proprietor's pride and joy, however, was his Terrace. It could only be enjoyed by those "friends of the Foote" who were guaranteed to give journalists something thrilling to report in the next editions of _The Daily Prophet_ , the increasingly popular _Quibbler_ , and everyone's favorite magazine, _Witch's Weekly_. Because of the expense incurred in reserving the Terrace, only the very wealthy made use of it. Conveniently for Mr. Malkin, such people tended to be photogenic, famous, or better yet, infamous. Had not Gilderoy Lockhart been a regular guest—usually of another party—but a frequent guest, nonetheless? Had not Cranston MacNair, the notorious father of Walden, been dragged off the Terrace during high tea? And was not Ree Potter—who rarely made a public appearance—coming to dine upon it that very evening with Severus Snape?

"Oh, the joy!" the florid, portly gentleman exclaimed as he again anticipated his new favorite guests' arrival. "Merlin loves me!"

Of course, Mr. Snape had engaged the entire Terrace for his personal use that evening, which made the proprietor's position as far as alerting the press a tricky one, but he felt he had rallied tolerably well. There were no less than seven reporters sitting in close proximity to the entrance—he had had to be firm with Mr. Snape in dissuading that wizard from his desire to enter by the private staff door; this he had easily done by reminding Snape that "a lady must make her entrance"—so everyone would see the two heros arrive together. Oh, he had forbidden the journalists to bring cameras, but in such a sly manner that they had each understood that they would never again be permitted to enter the Gryphon's Foote if there was not _film_ on the morrow.

"Mrs. Malkin will be so proud of her Malkininny-man, yes she will!" the wizard told himself. "Oh, this night is bound to be over entirely too soon!"

~*~

When Trillare Snape had heard from that dreadful Malkin woman that her own son had ordered a new suit of clothing that very morning—"a terrible rush job, it was, too"—she had become desperately curious to know why. So much had she felt that she needed to know the cause that she had floo'd home immediately, selected one of her late husband's favorite bewitched tie tacks, and made directly for one of the more discreet "lending concerns" in Knockturn Alley. The expense of the elaborate wardrobe she had commissioned from Malkin was exactly what was needed to loosen the gossip-loving witch's tongue. Of course, Severus had not deigned to inform the seamstress of his plans, but the witch had set herself to discovering what she could upon receipt of his order. It was her way, as everyone knew.

Trillare could not believe it. "My son has taken leave of his senses!" she exclaimed to Nanette Delacour, her companion for the evening. "The girl is half Muggle, and she did not even begin life as a _witch_! I'm so glad you'll be there with me tonight, Nette, dear. I feel that I'll have need of the support of a friend."

Nanette, a distant relation of Trillare's— _very distant_ , thought the witch—privately felt that the match would suit very well. "Come now, chérie, you cannot think to interfere in a matter of the heart."

"Now Nette, don't try and change my mind. I am resolved. I am his mother. I know what is best for him."

Nanette resigned herself to letting the woman have her way. _After all, I'll have the best seat in the house for the floorshow. And everyone knows how impossible it is to get a last-minute table at the Gryphon's Foote—even on a Tuesday_.

~*~

Narcissa Malfoy did not, as did her lover, own a quiet interest in several prime pieces of real estate in Diagon Alley, among other places. She did, however, hold the controlling interest in Zoroastrid Zabini. It had not taken much coaxing to persuade the other witch to book a table for the two of them at the most exclusive restaurant in town.

 _I will not sit idly by and allow that traitor to ruin my plans_.

"You truly despise Severus, don't you?" asked Zoroastrid as she finished attending to her coiffure.

Narcissa's smile put the witch quite in mind of Lucius.

"But of course I do, darling. Snape was primarily responsible for forcing Luci out of Lord Voldemort's inner circle. I am quite certain that, if not for his efforts, my husband would have been near our lord to advise him more ably. Matters would now be much improved had this been so."

"Your lord, you mean." Mrs. Zabini had never cared much for the Dark Lord. His blood was muddied, his mind muddled, and his thoughts murderous where Giancarlo had been concerned. She was certain that her dear Blaise would never have become an Auror had his father survived that madman's service and been present to instruct his son as to a proper profession. But no matter. Arguing with Cissa was never productive. "I'm ready to be seen now, my love."

~*~

Colin felt a tremendous wave of guilt pass through him as he was shown to his table at the Gryphon's Foote. He was carrying the smallest camera he had ever seen, courtesy of the editor of _Witch's Weekly_ , Mr. Edmund Doggett.

"Creevey, my boy, this is going to mean a lovely fat raise for you if you manage the thing. You get those pictures, boy, and I might just let you keep that pricey gewgaw!"

Looking at the menu, Colin found he did not much care as he remembered the words of his employer. He was about to invade the privacy of someone he admired more than anyone—and the stupid camera did not even have a flash.

~*~

Sheldon and Rupert were taken aback to find Rita sitting with Bill Weasley and a striking blonde of unmistakable Veela descent. Poor Rupert had to be nudged by his father surreptitiously more than once before he could choke out a civilized greeting, and even Sheldon found himself a bit . . . struck. This response died almost immediately when the wizard perceived the manic glee in the eyes of his ex-wife.

 _Trust you to try and_ work _the evening_ , he thought with something close to bitterness, though mitigated by his professional admiration. _Your technique_ does _remain impressive_. 

Sheldon was relieved on Rupert's behalf when he found that they were not expected to dine with the couple, and detected a bit of that emotion in the expressions of both young people as they made—well, as _she_ made, and the young man followed—a stately exit.

"So, Mum, were they the assignment, or are you here for something else?" Rupert asked.

Sheldon snickered through Rita's glare.

"Why of course you're who I want to see, Rupie," the witch crooned, pulling her long-suffering son into her arms.

"Mum!"

"Now, sit down and let me tell you all the latest news in London!"

~*~

Disaster fell at exactly seven-fifteen for Morgan Malkin. He was informed of the sorrowful business when his fluster sommelier, Jacque, rushed from the wine cellar to inform him that their "special guests" had arrived by the basement entrance and been shown to the Terrace without delay by Tantina Toadhopple-Thompson, the newest waitress on staff. By previous arrangement, wards had been set to ensure that the only being able to enter the Terrace after Snape and Potter's arrival was to be Milkie, the restaurant's house elf.

"Keep your head, man," Malkin repeated to himself as he began to pace the kitchen.

This is when Tantina returned.

It was all the wizard could do not to throttle the silly cow. He did not look at her for fear of losing control when he declared, "You're fired!"

But Toadhopple-Thompson was her mother's daughter for a reason. Siddling up to Mr. Malkin, she whispered, "You're keeping company with Jacque."

"About that raise, dear . . . ."

It was Tantina who reminded the proprietor that their guests would have to leave, eventually.

"Clever girl," Malkin chortled, rubbing his newest sous chef under her chin indulgently.

Not wanting to press her luck, the witch failed to flinch. _It wouldn't do to mess with the timetable of my becoming_ master _chef_ , she thought with a glance at Henri.

The current master of the kitchen did not notice the exchange that would bring him a new assistant. He was too busy screaming drunken orders in French to his current, terrified, English-speaking assistant who had only today been crying in the alley behind the restaurant, begging for a dark god, any dark god, to kill him.

_Don't worry, my darling. I'll treat you much better than you could possibly imagine after your brief vacation as a line chef_.

~*~

Terpsichore Toadhopple-Thompson congratulated herself. She had been conversing with the man for almost ten minutes without once staring at where his missing right arm should be.

"I trust that my request will not be a difficult one to fulfill?" enquired the dapper young gentleman as Terpsichore led him to his room at the Leaky Cauldron.

The young witch was surprised to find such a posh bloke in her current place of employment, but not to discover his preference to dine at a more refined establishment. She herself was only working at the dreary place until she had earned the last of the money she needed to open her own cheese shop. She thought she might call it The Finger's Wheel, envisioning the use of large lazy susan's she would use to display her wares.

_And I'll tell people that finger's are for turning, not pulling!_ she thought, trying not to giggle. "No, Sir, I shouldn't think so."

"Very good, _Miss_?"

"Toadhopple-Thompson, Sir. If you need anything, simply ask for me at the bar. I'll leave your reservation confirmation there, as well."

"And you're certain that there will be a table to be had at the Gryphon's Foote at this late hour?"

"I can't promise you their best, Sir," Terpsichore replied as she unlocked Mr. Lézard's door, "but I can promise you that you'll be eating there shortly."

"Malcolm" allowed himself to smile at the witch's cheerful competence. He was relieved to find himself being assisted by someone other than a stern medi-witch, or one of his family's chilly retainers. _I'm not about to allow Mother to know where I'm staying—and she'd_ never _believe I'd choose to stay in_ this _sort of place—but I do want dear Narcissa to know that I am out and about_.

"Here you are, Sir."

"This will do," he said, handing the young woman a large gratuity and dismissing her with a nod.

Terpsichore tucked the proffered coins into her apron with the speedy grace of one for whom gold is a rarity, nodded back, and stepped out of the room.

_Time to collect that favor from Tantina_ , she thought, rubbing the two cows—or the vast stainless mixing vat—that the coins represented between her fingers.

Pragmatism was a noted attribute of the members of the Toadhopple-Thompson brood.

~*~

Blaise was sitting at the tap of the Three Broomsticks perusing Draco's most recent owl to him when the squabbling couple floo'd in.

"'Ow could you, you inconsiderate beast?" demanded a the cultured voice of a French woman in heavily accented English from the hearth.

The Auror did not turn to witness the altercation.

"I _am_ sorry, Fleur, but I was just trying to help a friend. You like Ree, surely you understand."

_That's Bill Weasley_ , Blaise thought, his interest kindled.

"Two Merlin's Beards, if you please, Madame Rosmerta," the wizard called.

"Why certainly, Bill."

Blaise moved from his stool to a vacant chair near the front window that afforded him a discreet view of the fighting couple and allow him to eavesdrop without appearing to do so.

"It is all very well to do ze nice thing for your friend, but we could be eating zere now, rather than—oh, thank you Madame," Fleur interrupted herself to accept her drink. "Rather than," she faltered again, realizing that the proprietress had not removed herself after delivering their order.

"Rather than enjoying the surprise we've been preparing for you?" Rosmerta asked with a wink for the startled Bill.

Instantly, Fleur's expression softened into one of beatific wonder. "Oh, Bill, what 'ave you arranged?" she cried, clapping her hands in excitement.

The wizard looked expectantly at the publican.

"Now, now, you wouldn't want to spoil your young man's efforts," Rosmerta chided. "Why don't I send some stew to you while I see to the final touches?"

She left the two lovers gazing at one another fondly, and glided serenely away.

Blaise was tempted to follow Rosmerta, but thought the better of it as Fleur began to speak again.

"I 'ope zat Ree and her gentleman 'ave a fine time."

Bill chuckled and reached for his girlfriend's hands, rubbing them between his own. "Of course they will. The professor did reserve then Terrace, after all."

_Snape did_ what? Blaise thought. He was aware of the rumors swirling around the two professors—indeed, he had a galleon in the pot George Weasley held that said the two would never act on their evident attraction—but had not paid them much mind of late. It had been years since Snape and Ree had seemed . . . close. _And isn't she seeing Charlie? . . . This won't do_ , the Auror told himself as he pulled on his cloak and walked into the street through the pub's front door. 

He knew that he would have to apparate directly to the restaurant and discover what was going on because, should Draco find out that Snape was romancing Ree, the fact would consume his . . . friend's every thought.

_Which will leave him none to spare for_ me.

~*~

From the window of the best room the Three Broomsticks had to offer, Rosmerta spied her lover disappearing from the street. She had felt Blaise's attention turn from his parchment to her newest guests as soon as Ree Potter's name had been mentioned.

This had . . . irritated her.

One of the many advantages of vampirism was that one's charms remained forever beguiling. True, over the centuries, the witch had altered her appearance so as not to alert the populace to her true condition, and she, as any immortal creature must, had changed her identity, but _all_ of her forms had been desirable.

_Why then does it seem my lot to be abandoned? Cannot one man, wizard, or other male being appreciate what I have to offer?_

The publican ignored the better fairy that whispered to her about her poor taste in company, and the delight she frequently took in vexing her partners—bad, not-so-bad, or worse.

_Of course one plays with them_ , Rosmerta thought of her various companions. _That's what they're there for!_

Bewitching the hand-painted bloom's of the chamber's wallpaper to vivify and perfume the air, she considered her latest involvement. Although she was aware of his obsession with Malfoy's spawn, it had never occurred to her that her lover might throw her over for the boy.

_For I_ am _intact, and I_ will _bed him_.

And though she had originally allowed the boy to seduce her so that she might monitor his activities, she found she had come to enjoy his lush attentions more than many she had experienced in the past. Despite her avowal to Moody that the wizard was an excellent candidate for death, she knew that she would not permit anyone other than herself to offer it to Blaise.

_He is_ , she thought with a final inspection of the lovers' bower she had prepared, _mine_.

Setting a password on the door to Room Seven, Rosmerta came to a conclusion.

_It's past time that Blaise learned to see the sense of his position_.

Having once been an accomplished teacher, she reasoned that she was able enough to impart such a lesson.

_And class shall begin this very night_.


	7. Chapter Six: Best Intentions

One of Severus' most treasured memories—and valued all the more for its rarity—was his recollection of the weekend he had spent with Harry upon the completion of her first week of Auror training. He had been preparing to leave Novitiate One after delivering his blistering assessments of the trainees' efforts to brew a basic smoking potion—so useful for distracting an enemy—when he noticed that Apprentice Potter had not fled the lecture room with her peers to begin celebrating the survival of their initial exposure to Alastor Moody's curriculum.

_Fools_ , he thought, watching Harry gather her texts. _They have almost forgotten seven years of careful instruction and they have only just graduated!_

Harry cleared her throat expectantly, and that was all that was required for Severus to unburden himself of his anger.

"And will you be joining your comrades in killing the few remaining brain cells you possess toward retaining any knowledge that _might_ aid you in saving your life in the field should Moody's educational techniques afford you the opportunity to do so?"

The Auror-in-training rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and moved her lips as if counting.

The Potions master tried not to stare at them.

"Right, then—forty-two," Harry said, looking rather smug.

"Forty-two what?"

"Words in your last sentence, of course. Perhaps you should see someone about that problem, Professor. A construction of seven is all an average person expects to take in, you know."

Severus smirked. The minx was teasing him. For that, he would punish her. "How like you to set your sights so _low_ ," he said, pointedly allowing some of the hunger he felt for the girl rise in his eyes. "I have never considered the condition of being above average to be a defect."

His volley produced the satisfying result of Harry losing her composure and her texts.

Severus stepped forward to catch the volumes just before they hit the floor, and rose to tower above the girl in one slow, smooth motion. Gazing down at the confusion her features betrayed, he could feel the heat radiating from her slender form. It took a large measure of his control not to press himself into the warmth she unwillingly offered him.

"If you are quite finished examining my . . . linguistic facility, Apprentice Potter," he said, admiring the fact that the young woman did not yield her ground, "I believe I shall return to the castle for dinner."

The witch rallied more quickly than Severus would have liked and reached for her books. "But isn't it too late for that?" she asked as he surrendered her texts.

"Too late for what, Harry?" he asked, using her name in a futile attempt to recapture something of the . . . intimacy of the previous moment.

In the tone of voice that Severus knew indicated her meaning was perfectly clear to anyone paying sufficient attention, she replied, "Why, for dinner in the Great Hall."

The wizard felt a familiar stab of irritation. 

"I expect that is true, however—"

"And I have no intention of eating Neville's cooking," Harry continued.

Master Moody disliked the "magicking" of house elves, and insisted that his trainees see to the maintenance of the novitiate and their own gustatory requirements. Clearly, it was Longbottom's turn in the kitchen.

"I am pleased to discover that you retain your sense of self-preservation, but I fail to see what it has to do with my dinner plans."

Harry seemed to lose her nerve. "I just thought . . . I don't want to . . . ."

"What don't you want to do, Apprentice Potter?"

The witch's jaw tightened. Through clenched teeth, she answered, "I don't want to celebrate when nothing has been won."

The sentiment was unexpected.

"I had hoped that I might . . . come up to Hogwarts this evening. I'm rather tired, and I don't want to have to explain myself to everyone."

_She does look weary_ , Severus thought, suddenly concerned for the girl.

It was reasonable that she should be exhausted, given that she had just graduated after the completion of another harrowing year, gone immediately to Albus' vampire for tempering, and then had returned without resting to begin her training as an Auror.

_I should not have played with her in so unseemly a fashion when she clearly needs_ care. "Very well then. If Moody"—for Severus refused to refer to the Auror as Harry's "master"—"will permit it, you are welcome to return to the school with me."

The witch's relief was palpable. "But I get to cook," she stated, a mischievous grin lightening her face.

"My ability to prepare a meal is not—"

"The point. I know that you can follow a recipe, professor, but we both know that you're no cook!"

As the two of them sat down to dine together almost three hours later—Harry having thrown herself into an orgy of cooking—Severus found himself in agreement with the girl's assessment of their relative culinary abilities. _Cookery does require more intuition than exactness_ , he silently complimented the girl as he took his last bite of her Chicken Biryani, "but you still cannot brew a potion half as well as you ought to do by now."

Harry did not rise to his challenge. "I shall endeavor to hone my skills, then."

"Yes, you _must_. As an Auror in particular, a rudimentary understanding of potion-brewing and its uses will only serve to get you killed."

The mirth dancing at the corner of Harry's mouth stilled, and she appeared to consider the Potions master's words carefully before responding to his exhortation.

"I won't let you down, Sir."

_Sir_ , Severus thought, conscious of the unwelcome irony in being the recipient of Harry Potter's respect when all he truly desired from her was— _No. Do not dwell upon it_ , he ordered himself, closing his eyes. _Clearly, she will never look upon my romantic interest as anything other than a perverse, nightmarish whim. . . . I do not even know if she considers me in light of a friend_.

He heard Harry rise and begin to clean the little table before the hearth that sat between their chairs, but could not bring himself to look at her or speak. Allowing himself to sink deeply into a cauldron of his own misery, he was startled by the sensation of softness and warmth draping his body.

His eyes snapped open, and he cursed himself for the unguarded wistfulness of his tone as he asked, "Are you leaving?"

"No," Harry whispered, kneeling before Severus and beginning to unlace his shoes.

In all their years of sharing living quarters, the witch had never once presumed to remove the wizard's shoes and place his sock-clad feet upon a stool.

It was not the gesture of a grateful student.

But to speculate on what the woman's attentions did signify would not answer, so the man forewent his customary practice of classification to revel in the welcome domesticity of the moment.

They fought over breakfast.

The fight was ostensibly about Harry's refusal to confide in Severus about her summer activities with the vampire. In truth, Severus had come to the conclusion during a wakeful night that the girl's care of him could be construed as daughterly. 

This possibility was not to be borne.

At last, having apparently endured a sufficient length of parental lecturing on the subject of trusting fell creatures too closely, the witch threw down her buttered toast and stood up.

"You are _not_ my father, you insufferable, arrogant, doomsinging windbag! If you don't _leave it_ ," she threatened, collecting the breakfast plates despite the fact that neither of them had finished eating, "then you and I cannot be friends!"

Bells rang—celebratory bells—and the wizard was gracious in victory.

Severus caught Harry's arm as she made to pass him and leave the room. "Then you had better leave me my breakfast so that I have something with which to occupy my mouth other than using it to inflict my prophesies upon you."

The couple spent the remainder of the weekend in homey pursuits, and Severus had never been happier.

But even then, he could never have predicted that he would be on the verge of proposing that he and Harry formalize their bond by taking vows of marriage. After a lifetime of making the wrong decisions, however, this one seemed so completely _right_. He and Harry belonged to each other, loved each other, and it was only fitting that their feelings be consecrated in an honorable way.

_She deserves nothing less_ , Severus thought, watching his lover's pensive face in the flickering light as they sat on the terrace. He did not blame her for her thoughtfulness; his behavior _had_ been odd.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, extending his arm across the table and offering the woman his hand.

She took it without hesitation.

~*~

"No, Albus, I don't think you were right," Alastor Moody said as the clock chimed. It was seven-thirty in the evening, and the two men were pacing the headmaster's study together.

"At the time, you agreed with my reasons for obscuring Harry's memory, Alastor. She would not have allowed herself to rest until she had discovered how the boy survived, and there were . . . other reasons to allow the matter to drop, reasons that were perhaps more compelling than allowing her to recover from her ordeal."

"The girl is who she is, Albus. She would have coped."

"I am not as convinced of that as are you, old friend. Further, the child has allowed herself to be interfered with by those she trusted."

"She trusts _you_."

"Indeed."

Moody grunted, his magical eye glaring in accusation at the other wizard.

Albus ignored the remonstrance of the other man and continued. "Harry's thoughts have never been clear when considering either Draco Malfoy or Blaise Zabini."

"I think we may yet have a candidate for that list other than yourself."

"Severus has my complete trust."

"That is only because you believe you control him."

The headmaster inclined his head. "As you say, Alastor. However, I no longer have any active hold over Severus. I have not believed it necessary for many long years."

Moody took a chair next to the desk. "I never would have thought to call you a trusting fool, old man, but I don't agree with you."

"I wouldn't expect you to, old friend," the other wizard replied, allowing his face to harden somewhat, "but I do expect that you will judge Severus by his actions since his . . . mistake, and acknowledge our debt to him—particularly now that he is about to begin a new phase in his life."

"You said it yourself, man. There are those who remain loyal to the Dark Lord—or at least to his ideals—who's to say that Snape isn't playing a deep game?"

"I am."

"The girl ought to know everything she can about her . . . about Snape—and the rest of it."

"I do not intend to allow Harry to become _confused_ , Alastor. Do you desire the child to bind her fate to that of young Malfoy's? . . . No?" he asked expectantly. "Good. I, too, would protect her from such a future."

The old Auror considered the wizard staring at him for a long moment before speaking. "It seems to me that your kind of protection has led to disaster in the past. Lily and James Pot—"

Standing abruptly, the sudden surge of his power being summoned caused Albus' beard to crackle with magic. "Do not presume to blame me for their deaths!"

"I don't have to—clearly."

"Forgive me," Albus said, allowing the current of energy to diffuse as he retook his seat.

"What for? You're not all-powerful, man, no matter what you may have come to believe. You and I, we've had our adventures, we know a thing or two, but allowing guilt to guide you is not the wisest course."

"What would you have of me, Alastor?"

"I'd have you confess what you did to the girl. She may not forgive you for it, but she'll at least be free to make an informed decision before entering the next phase of _her_ life! If she can focus on the Malfoy brat's survival, she might be in a position to help us explain it. Zabini has certainly betrayed nothing."

"It's not at all clear that young Blaise had anything to do with it."

"Oh no? Well, like as not he did. The entire situation reeks of the kind of magicking his people are known for."

"He was your apprentice. Didn't that teach you anything about him, Alastor?"

"It taught me plenty, Albus, and none of it useful to our purposes. He makes my good eye itch."

The headmaster's eyes twinkled. "Which one would that be?"

Moody found himself disgusted by his friend's ability to find something to smile about in most situations. _Ridiculous old fool_. But he merely grunted in response.

~*~

"Why are we here?" Harry asked Severus in answer to his question.

She had been impressed by the apparent trouble he had taken to ensure the two of them had their privacy. The Terrace of the Gryphon's Foote looked lovely. It had been transformed from the sophisticated ballroom it had been the first and only time she had seen it as a guest at a charity function hosted by Narcissa Malfoy to an intimate garden, complete with fairy lights, and redolent of rosemary that had been wound in boughs around the columns of the gazebo under which they were now sitting. Gentle, wordless music emanated from the foliage. But why Severus had felt the need to set a seduction scene when she had made her desire for him as plain as she knew how was a mystery.

"We could be in bed by now, you know," she prompted when her lover did not speak.

Severus squeezed her hand, and something of a smile lit his eyes. "I would enjoy nothing more, Harry, but . . . ."

"But what, love?"

Withdrawing his hand gently from hers, the wizard straightened in his chair and looked at Harry with something like concern in his eyes.

_Oh, dear_ , she thought, trying to feel more amused than worried by the change in the man's position. _He's going to lecture me. And he seems nervous about the subject, doesn't he?_

"There is a story I would tell you, with your permission."

_So formal_ , she thought, making herself more comfortable in the cushioned chair in which she was sitting and composing her face into an expression of anticipation.

"You know, of course, that Slytherin House has long been home to the Bloody Baron?"

"Yes. He's the only ghost who can control Peeves. What does—"

"Patience, Miss Potter."

"As you wish."

Severus snorted a bit, but continued. "Of late, I have discovered that the baron is not, in fact, a ghost at all, but—"

"Pardon me?"

"Not if you persist in interrupting me," the wizard said in an approximation of his usual severity.

Harry laughed. "Go on."

"It seems that one of Hogwarts' former teachers, one of the old nurses, as it happens, who was a colleague of the Baron's, cursed the man after he—" here, Severus interrupted himself. _This is not the way to go about it, is it? You've already begun, you idiot. You must finish. There is no other way to explain!_ "After he . . . murdered his wife."

"Knowing that I began life as a boy, I can appreciate that the thought of romancing me in a traditional manner might _seem_ problematic to you, Severus. But I'm not certain that even I would have felt it necessary to woo someone with both romantic surroundings _and_ a startling ghost tale!"

The wizard looked uncomfortable. "There _is_ more."

"Regale away."

"It seems that the Baron's family disapproved so strongly of the match that they sent emissaries after him as he was making his way out of the country to kill his new bride. He slaughtered them, and brought her safely to Hogwarts where he became the school's first Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"And did the lady appreciate his sacrifice?"

"No. She was . . . rather young, and not accustomed to being on her own, so . . . ."

"She took a lover," Harry finished for him. "A younger lover."

"Yes."

"It wasn't Peeves, was it?"

" _Harry_. . . . No. At least, the Baron did not allow that it was."

"Did he allow as to _how_ he had been cursed? I mean, the particulars? What do you mean when you say that he's 'not actually a ghost'?"

"Although I can understand your curiosity to know about such matters, they really are not germane to my tale."

"Yes, but isn't the object of any story-teller to please his listener?"

"If you insist," Severus said, smirking a bit. "The witch took offense to his actions and cursed him to a, how did he phrase it? Ah, to a 'twilight existence' until such time as he had wrought as much joy as destruction."

"I suppose it isn't much of a surprise that there has been dark magic practiced at Hogwarts in the past, is it?" Harry asked, starting a little as her empty wine glass began refilling of its own accord.

"Not everything about the school has made it into the pages of _Hogwarts, A History_ , to be sure."

"So, I assume that when the baron found his wife, she was with her lover?"

"Indeed."

"And that is when he killed them. . . . Tell me, is this your way of providing me with a warning?"

"What?" Severus asked, stunned.

"I _am_ teasing, you know," the witch said, suddenly growing serious. "I expect this story explains why Hermione's been in the Bloody Baron's good graces. Since Ron . . . died, Hermione hasn't moved on, and . . . ."

The wizard saw the look of pain cross Harry's face and rose to join her. Drawing her up from her chair, he embraced Harry warmly. "Miss Granger's fidelity to Ronald Weasley would be pleasing to him, I expect. But I am sorry that my telling you this story has caused you pain. It is important to me that you understand how very much I . . . want to do right by you."

Encouraged by the contact, Harry attempted to kiss Severus, but the wizard pulled away from her.

"Now is not the time for that," he said.

_Why not?_ she thought, growing frustrated by the man's repeatedly putting her off. _Something is wrong_. She broke their embrace completely and looked at her lover. "Severus, tell me exactly what happened."

"The Baron materialized in my chambers and instructed me that taking you to my bed in secret would only lead to disappointment. He said that if I loved you, I would . . . court you properly and with the permission of your family. When I argued that I did not require lessons in traditional courtship, he laughed at me. And then he set Peeves to destroying my workroom."

"Oh, that's unfortunate. But how did he make your rooms disappear?"

"How did the old nurse curse the man to walk half in and half out of his own life? I do not know, Harry, but I do think now that perhaps the Baron meant well. He said that he wanted to prevent me from making his mistake."

"You're paying his words serious attention? Our situation is nothing remotely like his, and with all due respect to the murderous busy-body, you and I don't need anyone's approval!"

"Do we not? If you knew that Sirius and Remus did not approve of our . . . involvement, would you be happy to be with me?" Severus asked her, returning to his chair. "I know that you tend to do the first thing that you feel, Harry, but it seems to me that before we . . . proceed, we must take into consideration the consequences of our actions. People will talk, you know, people who will not be concerned with your happiness. And given my history, they will doubt us—doubt our commitment."

A feeling of worry crept up Harry's spine as she sat down. "Severus, do _you_ doubt us?"

"No, but I wonder if you have considered the attention our . . . relationship will engender."

_"Involvement," "relationship," why doesn't he say "our love," or something more personal?_ Why _is he so hesitant?_ "Severus, I haven't given it a _moment's_ thought. I don't care about what other people think. Do you?"

"Harry, I think you will come to care, which is why I have sought to spare you any unpleasantness resulting from your choice."

_My choice_. "What do you mean?"

Severus took a deep breath. _Quit stalling, man! It's time to tell her everything_. "I have given the matter significant thought, Harry, which is why I have presented my Declaration of Intent to your family and enrolled in the Courtship Rites of the Assembly—no, do not interrupt me. This is too important—if we _are_ to be wed, then we shall be so with the armor of tradition and ritual on our side. No one will be able to say that you have entered into a coerced relationship if we follow the old forms—and you need not worry about the particulars of the courtship rites or the procedures of the wedding ceremony. I will see to it myself that everything is done properly," he finished, proud of himself for getting all of that out on his first go.

But Harry's reaction was not what he had expected. She was standing again. Indeed, she had stood so quickly that her movement caused her chair to rattle across the gazebo. And the expression on her face was not one of love, gratitude, or even comprehension.

"I'm sorry, are we getting married?" she asked in a small, cold voice.

It boded ill.

"Harry, I—" Severus said, attempting to stand—and found that he could not.

"Are we getting married?" she asked again.

But Severus could not speak, either. He considered, for the first time, that Harry was not just the woman he loved, but a powerful witch in her own right, and alarming to look upon when angered.

"It seems that you're quite settled as to that point, aren't you? You've decided, and quite properly, too," she mocked, "that, without a proposal, without even a declaration of your love, that you are going to make me your wife in some wizarding tradition I had no idea even existed!"

Harry left the raised platform of the gazebo's floor and began to pace in the little garden behind Severus. He thought she might be crying, but could not turn around to be certain.

"I am such an idiot. Why didn't I realize it before? You've been acting weirdly all day, haven't you? And I must be worth something to you for you to have gone to all the trouble of inventing that story about the Bloody Baron. 'Half-life' my arse! If you thought that I was a mistake, then why not just tell me? Why go to so much bloody trouble? Oh, I realize that you would marry me. You aren't lying about that, are you? You would have married me—properly—but only out of some bizarre sense of obligation!"

She was crying now.

Harry was remembering her fight with Severus when she had returned from Evie Toadhopple's care. She had knocked on his door and entered his rooms to find the Potions master drunk and sullen, and he had attacked her with such unexpected verbal ferocity that she had barely been able to scream her own responses. She remembered the last thing he had said to her now, despite the fact that his other words had long faded: _"Albus would have me undertake to keep you as my special obligation, but I find myself too tired at present to endure the burden. Perhaps in time I shall again feel up to the challenge of looking after you properly."_

"Oh, I am sorry, Professor Snape. I have been a terrible burden to you—but I shall be one no longer. I release you from whatever obligation you believe you have toward me. Please accept my sincerest assurance that my welfare is no longer anything to do with you, as I shall be happy to convey to the headmaster should he tax you with any inattention to your duty."

She paused to catch her breath, and then continued in a voice that seemed detached from all emotion. "Be good enough to alert me to the necessity of speaking with Headmaster Dumbledore if it becomes an issue, won't you? And accept my congratulations on your freedom."

Severus, recalling at once to what Harry's words alluded, felt as though his heart would burst with sadness. _No, Harry! I was drunk—I meant nothing of what I said to you that night, and you misunderstand me_ now. "Harry!" he cried, as the witch's spell dissipated.

But when he turned around, it was to find himself quite alone.


	8. Chapter Seven: Reverberations

Harry meant to leave. Indeed, her only thought, as shaken as she felt, was _Get away!_

And that, apparently, was a problem when one had the ability to transport oneself through time and space.

In her distress, Harry's unfocused will delivered her off of the Terrace and onto the ballroom floor adjacent to the main dining room on the first floor of the Gryphon's Foote.

_Merlin bless a lady's desire to make an entrance_ , Morgan Malkin exulted as Ree Potter appeared in the center of the dancing couples. He was very careful not to betray _his_ surprise as he rushed the bandstand and wrested the charmed microphone from Benita Watlings, his star performer.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice rang out over the spreading silence and to every corner of his establishment, the Gryphon's Foote is proud to welcome our most honored guest, the greatest hero of our age, Ree Potter, the Girl Who Lived!"

The applause was cacophonous to Harry's ears; it rooted her firmly to the spot. She attempted to look gracious as the patrons jumped to their feet and lauded her.

_Oh, there's going to be such splendid film!_ Malkin congratulated himself, as several wizards began edging toward the little circle of dancers that had closed around the witch.

"Now, now, gentlemen, one at a time. Miss Potter can only dance with one of you at a time, you know!"

"And this is my dance, I believe," a firm, masculine voice rose over the excited murmurs of the crowd.

_Good boy_ , Narcissa Malfoy thought in approbation.

Draco walked through the parting throng and offered Harry his only hand. "Smile, Potter," he whispered through pearlescent teeth.

Harry did so, unable to think what else to do, and the two of them began a careful waltz around the emptying floor. No one wanted to miss the show. But Malkin quickly exhorted his guests not to be shy, and soon the strains of the orchestra and the rising voices of the other dancers afforded the unlikely couple something akin to privacy.

"Blaise was just telling me the most amusing story, Ree," Draco informed Harry.

"I can't imagine what that might be, Mr. Lézard," she pointedly replied, though she did not know why she called Draco by that name. 

The memory holding the reason was hovering just out of reach in her mind, bleeding slowly into her consciousness.

"Forgive me for that, but when we last met, I knew that you were not yourself."

"Why weren't you yourself?"

A look of puzzlement crossed the young wizard's face, but almost immediately, it changed to amusement. "You're teasing me, of course."

"What else would I be doing?" Harry said in an attempt to cover her confusion regarding not having thought of Draco in such a long time. _What is it about you that I'm missing?_

"I believe our mutual . . . friend has also been trying to cultivate a bit of mischief."

"How so?"

"Mr. Zabini is under the impression that you are being courted by our old Potions master."

Harry stiffened. "Blaise is sadly misinformed."

Draco's eyes flicked over his partner's shoulder to the staircase leading to the terrace, the same staircase on which a glowering Severus Snape had just appeared. "And does the wizard in question know that, Harry?" he asked, indicating the man and acknowledging his entrance with one slight bow of his head.

_Merlin, let me die_ , the witch thought, turning Draco further into the press of dancers. _He won't make a scene. He won't!_ she prayed.

Snape came down the stairs and across the floor in several easy strides and tapped Draco smartly on the shoulder. "May I cut in, Mr. Malfoy."

It was not a question.

The wizard's arm tightened around Harry's waist as he looked at her, ignoring the other man. "May he?" he enquired of her pleasantly.

"No."

"Ah, too bad, Sir. Lady's choice, I'm afraid," Draco drawled, spinning Harry a bit to bestow a genteel smirk on his rival.

Narcissa Malfoy was by Snape's side before he could raise his wand. "Severus, _darling!_ I'm so pleased to find you here! And _yes_ , I'd love to dance with you," she said, guiding the man swiftly away from both her son and the shrill eyes of Trillare Snape, who was glaring at the scene from a raised table just off the dance floor. "Don't, Severus," she ordered as he attempted to disengage himself from her surprisingly strong grasp. "Ree won't thank you for it."

He relented, and Narcissa noted with distaste that a reporter had begun to dance entirely too closely to them. She slid Severus' wand from his jacket pocket, and, holding it low, cast a Jelly Legs jinx on the witch before the man could prevent her from doing so.

"I've always despised that Skeeter woman," she said, smiling sweetly directly into her partner's eyes.

_Heels_ , Severus thought, explaining the thing easily away and asking, "What is _he_ doing here?"

"I would have thought that was obvious, old friend."

"Do not play games with me, Narcissa. You are not as adept at it as was Lucius."

The witch laughed, but her eyes glinted dangerously as she asked, "Well, you would know that better than most, wouldn't you?"

"His death is not on my hands."

"No?"

"No."

"If you say so," Narcissa said roughly, almost forgetting that her purpose in dancing with Severus had been to _prevent_ a scene. 

Unsure of what else to do, Colin took pictures of everyone, adjusting his lense to capture any hint of flaring magic. His eyes had keenly fixed upon his former professor's wand, and he thought that there might be hexing to capture. He had missed the casting of the jinx Rita had caught when he had looked away to adjust the dials on his camera, but he did not think the Potions master would have bothered with that ridiculous harpy. _No, I think he'd rather curse Draco Malfoy_ , the photographer thought. _Why is Harry dancing with him? She hated him in school!_

Across the floor, the thoughts of the witch in question were taking a similar turn. "Why aren't you afraid?" she asked Draco, who seemed completely at his ease. "I thought that you were forbidden to associate with me."

"Oh, Potter," Draco said, almost laughing the words. "I _have_ missed you. Why not relax and enjoy yourself, or has your lovers' spat wound you more tightly than usual?"

Harry flinched. "Shut up, Malfoy."

"How can I answer your questions if you bid me be silent?" he mocked her.

"You've clearly taken something. Euphoria isn't a natural state for you."

"Perhaps. But I find that freedom agrees with me far too much to brood tonight."

"Freedom? From that . . . facility you've been living in?" she asked, remembering a bit more of what it was that she had forgotten.

Draco scowled a bit, but then suppressed the expression with a tight little smile that was pure Lucius Malfoy. Harry faltered.

"There now, I've got you. Yes, Mother was all concern for my welfare after Father's death, but, as usual, she over-estimated my need to . . . recover. I rather believe the woman felt her own reputation would suffer if I remained in the country. . . . Malfoys don't appreciate being examined.

"What do you want, Draco?"

"For a start, to know what is troubling you."

_His concern_ almost _looks genuine_. "Nothing a little privacy wouldn't cure."

"Then why did you elect to make such a dramatic entrance?"

The witch did not reply.

"Ah, it appears that Blaise wasn't in error. You _are_ with Severus, and your fight must have truly confused you."

Feeling completely exposed and insecure, Harry closed her eyes and leaned into Draco a little more.

The wizard allowed it. "Do you know," he whispered gently into her hair, "that for once, I find myself in complete agreement with Mother?"

Disconsolately, Harry murmured, "About what?"

"You need someone to look after you."

The witch stiffened, but did not offer further resistance as Draco led her deftly off the dance floor to where Morgan Malkin proudly stood surveying the fruit of his labor. Malkin was regretting his impulsive decision to send waiters around to chase off the journalists, but Colin had not been the only person to witness Snape draw his wand. The restauranteur did not desire any real violence, only scandal.

"Malkin, do be good enough to evict whatever peasants are occupying the private dining room on the second floor. Miss Potter and I wish to be private."

"Without delay, young man!" the proprietor agreed with alacrity.

If every eye in the house had not been on them, Harry would have protested, but she was overwhelmed by the day's events. She desperately wanted to be alone, even if it meant being alone with a Malfoy.

She found herself being made comfortable by Milkie, the resident house elf. "Don't I know you?" she asked the wide-eyed being.

"Yes, Mistress does! Milkie is one of Dobby's free elves, Mistress! Milkie is working here."

Hermione's efforts to liberate the Hogwarts elves had not, it seemed, proved entirely unsuccessful.

"They _pay_ you?" Draco asked in evident disgust.

"Shut up, Malfoy. That's very nice for you, Milkie. Congratulations, and please tell Dobby that . . . that I'm glad he's had such a . . . happy influence on your life."

Restraining her desire to stick her tongue out at Sir, Milkie smiled at Miss and bowed before popping out of the room. She further resolved to follow Harry Potter's orders immediately, as she did not trust the wizard the witch was with. _Dobby says that we should always be helping our people as our first duty_ , Milkie thought, winking into Hogwarts' kitchen. _And Milkie is too quick to miss_.

"Really, Harry, the creatures with whom you deign to associate—I'm amazed."

The witch sipped the cup of spiced coffee that Draco had ordered for her, and glared at the wizard over her rim. "Don't push me, Malfoy. It's been a bad day, and the last time you and I were . . . together . . . ," she finished, unable to continue.

A look of sorrow replaced Draco's expression of irritation. "I . . . I don't know what to say to you, Harry. It was . . . I was . . . it's just that . . . ."

"You're at a loss for words? That's not like you."

"Then you won't believe this," Draco responded, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry for how I treated you that night, Harry. I wasn't . . . myself."

It was a stunning thing to hear the prat apologize for anything without being threatened, but there had been too many shocks that day for Harry to credit its significance. "I would have said that you were quite yourself."

"I never meant to scare you," the wizard said, clearly trying to quell his anger.

"You _hurt_ me, Draco. I agreed to drink that shit so that you could have me as a man, not as a _boy_."

Genuine shame graced Draco's features. "I hurt you," he acknowledged, "but it wasn't my intention to do so. . . . I shouldn't have drunk Blaise's calming draught before you arrived."

Bells sounded in Harry's mind—warning bells—and the peals shook loose several of her memories at once. The witch fell forward and spilled her drink across the table, which caused a waitress, as no doubt there were charms to alert the staff when a clean-up was needed, to open the door.

"Get out," Draco ordered quietly, his wand raised.

The waitress fled.

"Where is it?" Harry asked, staring at the place Draco's right arm should occupy. "How did you manage to survive?"

A little worried now, the wizard did not lower his wand, but set a hasty looking spell on the door.

"Why aren't you dead, Draco?" Harry asked, clutching the table with both hands as she tried to steady the whirlwind of her mind.

"It would seem that Blaise really has been playing unfairly with others. He told me that you knew, Harry."

"That I knew _what?_ "

But she never heard his answer, for as he was about to speak, several things occurred at once.

The strident tone of Severus Snape's voice shouting, " _Alohamora!_ " was heard just outside the door, and the concerned faces of Dobby and Milkie materialized before the rest of their bodies on top of the table. Dobby took one look from Harry to Draco to the door and back to Harry, said, "No, no! This is all very bad, Harry Potter!" and then, just as the door flew open, Harry and her favorite house elf disappeared.

Severus, however, only saw Milkie and Draco as he rushed into the room. " _Protego!_ " he yelled, deflecting the spell the younger wizard had cast upon seeing his former professor, which rebounded and flung Draco into the wall. The blow knocked the boy unconscious.

It took three waiters and one strong restraining spell cast by Narcissa Malfoy to pry the Potions master's fingers from around Draco's throat.

Colin Creevey—who had avoided the brush off received by the other journalists by hiding in the Little Wizard's Room—captured the entire scene on film.

"Release. Me. At. Once," Severus ordered from behind clenched teeth.

"Why? So that you can murder my son?" Narcissa asked.

Zoroastrid, who had followed her lover's progress as Cissa had left the dance floor, noted that Mrs. Malfoy looked rather pleased by the entire situation. Efficiently, she pushed everyone but herself, Narcissa, Draco, and Severus from the room, chanted a repairing charm on the door, and locked it rather more firmly than it had ever been before.

Narcissa forewent her customary amused detachment to attend to her son as he attempted to rise and recover his wand.

"An excellent instinct, boy," Severus spat, "but it won't save you!"

" _Accio Severus' wand!_ " Zoroastrid ordered. It rose from the place it had landed and came to her at once. She tucked it away. Turning to Severus she said, "Only think, won't you, of the damage that has already been done. It would be wise to allow ourselves a moment of peace before continuing to function as free entertainment for the eyes of the vulgar."

Smoothing pale blond hair away from her flustered—and slightly fearful—son's face, Narcissa said, "You should listen to our old school chum, Severus. She's never wrong."

The two witches smiled at each other.

"Release me," Severus insisted again, but in a much calmer tone this time.

Helping her son to a chair, Narcissa pointed her wand at the other wizard and favored him with a wicked grin.

"Cissa," Zoroastrid said reprovingly.

"Oh, very well. How like you to spoil my fun, dearest. . . . _Finite Incantatum!_ "

Severus immediately held out an arm toward Zoroastrid. "My wand, if you please."

"I do not please, not yet."

Severus glared.

Zoroastrid laughed mildly. "Now this is awkward," she said, taking one of two additional chairs that she had just conjured, "but surely among the four of us we can manage a solution to tonight's . . . misunderstanding?"

When neither Narcissa nor Severus sat as well, Zoroastrid pressed, "Come now, you two. We're all Slytherins here. You there," she said, indicating Milkie with a flick of her own wand, "bring us something to soothe the tempers of old rivals."

~*~

Harry found herself in the school's kitchen, once again the center of attention. She was besieged by a bevy of concerned house elves. Dobby, chief among them, demanded to know what could be done to see to her welfare.

"Get out of my way!" ordered the familiar voice of Poppy Pomfrey. She had not put a hand on Harry before she was pulling back her arm in horrified rage. "Albus!" she spat in a dark tone before simply disappearing from the kitchen.

Harry sunk to the floor, wondering if she had imagined seeing the old nurse, and was promptly prodded by Dobby as he looked for any injuries she might have incurred. 

"You is in a bad state," he said.

"What happened?"

"Dobby has brought Harry Potter home. His Milkie came to say that you was in trouble."

Another elf suddenly yelled, "'His' Milkie! Winky _knew_ it!"

A burble of rapidly exclaiming house elves subdued the distraught female elf and retreated in a series of pops.

"Winky is thinking bad things," explained Dobby to a confused Harry. "But then, Winky is like that when she is sober enough to do the thinking. . . . You must have tea, Harry Potter. At the table," he urged, levitating the witch until she was standing.

As Harry took a seat at one of the large tables that mirrored those found above in the Great Hall, Dobby continued, "Sometimes Dobby is thinking that he likes his Winky better when she is drinking." 

And then the elf pressed Harry to take a steaming mug of something foamy, pink, and sweet.

"You is very good to drink it, Harry Potter. Dobby is glad you is home now."

~*~

It was eight-fifteen in London when Morgan Malkin's fame as the most exciting host of the wizarding world was assured for the next hundred years at least.

Narcissa Malfoy, co-mistress of the Assembly's Courtship Committee, had just made an historic announcement— _and in my place of business, too!_ That her news appeared to have disturbed her partner in the duty of overseeing the rites made it all the more fantastic.

The unheard of had occurred: A Malfoy was setting a Claim of Courtship on someone, someone of Muggle descent.

Draco Malfoy was going to attempt to woo Ree Potter to be his wife.

Watching the wine and the congratulations flow, Malkin reflected that perhaps young Zabini's sour expression might have something to do a smatter of truth being in those old rumors surrounding _his_ courtship of the Girl Who Lived. _It certainly would explain his excessive civility to young Malfoy—and his sulky expression_.


	9. Chapter Eight: The Repercussions of Success

Forty-five minutes after tumbling Remus to the carpet, a gasping Sirius pulled himself up from the floor. "Gods, love—you're going to be the death of me!"

"You started it," the other wizard murmured languidly. "You're as bad as ever James was."

"Well, Lily was just as delectable as you. Who could blame the man?"

"Who, indeed?"

It was awhile before Remus realized that his lover had not responded, nor returned to cuddle. Sirius always cuddled.

"Aren't you coming back?" he asked, sitting up to look at Sirius, who was flipping through the pages of _Whistlespit_ again.

"Tell me something . . . . When James and Lily took out those Death Eaters at the Knockturn Alley meeting they surprised, was that when Augusta Malfoy was killed?"

"Lucius' cousin? I believe so. Why? . . . Oh, shit!" Remus exclaimed. "Give me that," he said briskly, taking the guide from Sirius and turning to the page for which the other wizard had been looking.

On page nine hundred and seventy-one, the applicable rule read: "During the Courtship Rites, in the interest of peace and justice, and toward the preservation of the Families, any House that has suffered the loss of a marriageable, fertile witch by the actions of another member of the Assembly"—here "the Assembly" meant the assembled family members of the extant wizarding bloodlines—"may seek, as honorable redress of the loss of one of its own, a marriageable, fertile female of the offending House to be wed to one of its own, so long as the potential parties of the union from both Houses have between them no other Bonds of any kind, and if they have entered into the Rites of Courtship willingly toward the satisfaction of their own desires, unless they have been entered into the Rites of Courtship by decree of their Heads of House or Guardians. Let those who enter into the Ancient Rites be taxed with infertility or loss of limb or death should they deny their rightful part in any ceremony they have entered. Let this sentence be carried out at the Assembly in front of the Blood. Let not the loss of a marriageable, fertile wizard may be redressed through the Courtship Rites, however, as Blood's Purity must be traced through the line of the mothers to ensure its strength. Though shalt not suffer a wizard to live who destroys the fertility of a witch in order to cause weakness in an enemy House, or cause the slaking of sorrow, or for any reason as of can be thought, as such an offense is the Death of a Line of the Blood of All Wizard, and not to be Borne without Vengeance."

"Love, did you send Severus' Declaration of Intent to be filed?"

Sirius, feeling vaguely uneasy, replied, "Yeah. Is that a problem?"

They both knew it was.

"Damn it, Sirius! Why didn't you wait?"

The other wizard stood up and began to kick books and papers out of his way as he paced the floor. "I forgot about Augusta. I was certain that nothing could possibly interfere with Severus' plans."

"Then why have we spent most of this evening researching the matter?" demanded Remus.

"I was just humoring you—you worry about everything."

Now Remus was standing, and he was clearly very angry. "I see. Blame me then, blame _me_ for your impatience—or is it that you were afraid that if you didn't get the declaration off to the Ministry immediately, you'd allow your _own_ reservations to interfere with your goddaughter's happiness?"

"How dare you imply that I'd ever hurt Harry? You know I don't mind Sev, now!"

Remus froze. "Well, _that's_ a glowing endorsement if ever I heard one. Do you think Ree will find it sufficient? Do you think she'll understand being forced to participate in the rituals if she _wants_ to marry Severus—or anyone at all?"

"They don't kill or maim people who don't abide by the old rules anymore."

"But oath-breakers are still ostracized, Sirius, and, as a matter of fact, a sentence of childlessness _has_ been passed down within the last one hundred and fifty years. Or didn't you know that? Didn't you care to know that?"

Sirius attempted to interrupt, but it seemed as though all of Remus' patience with his lover had fled in response to his latest mistake. And Remus had been patient with Sirius for so very long that his frustrations with the wizard ran deeper than even _he_ knew.

"Do you want Ree to be made barren should Narcissa decide to push the issue? Because you and I both know that if she can hurt Harry by setting a Claim of Courtship on her in Draco's name, she'll do it. Malfoys don't _forgive_ , Sirius! And haven't you and I been trying to protect her from them for years now? Didn't we swear to Severus to be certain that there could be no possible complication in this matter before consenting to pursue it? Ree is not going to understand your foolhardy haste, your lack of care, your inattention to basic research, you useless, abject, idiot!"

The disconsolate whine of a dog was the enraged wizard's only reply. _Don't think I won't kick you_ , Remus thought, storming out of the room before he lost all control and did something he would regret.

The air gust caused by the door's being slammed sent a little ripple across the surface of the liquid in the goblet that the Potions master had brought up for Remus shortly before he had left the castle earlier that same evening. Severus' Wolfsbane Potion was now so efficacious that Remus did not require it until just before moonrise.

~*~

Poppy's rage flowed through every limb of her body like a black and poisonous potion as she appeared in Albus' rooms and began flinging at that wizard every curse she had at her disposal.

When their initial fight had ceased, Fawkes was calling in distress, with Albus' hands on him as the wizard prevented the bird from defending him. "No, my friend, no," he crooned to the offended phoenix.

The bird was unharmed, and the headmaster's wounds would heal.

"If you were any other man, you'd be dead right now," Poppy said through the heavy breathing that indicated her recent, murderous exertions. "How could you?"

Albus knew that only one thing could make the nurse this angry—the interference with one of "her" children—and the only child with whom he was actively interfering was Ree.

"Let me explain, Vera," he said, invoking her old name in an attempt to reestablish their common purpose.

"I do not require your explanation, Godrixibus. We took the same pledge, you and I. We swore to be as guardians over the children under our protection! You have become a vile oath-breaker, as did Salazar!"

"I most certainly did not do—"

"Alteration of the will is a damaging act, you presumptuous ass. That child has been through enough without having to learn to defend herself against your good intentions. Didn't Slytherin's betrayal teach you that lesson? He was as committed to our kind as were you, yet the harm he—"

"I need no reminder of Salazar's behavior, or the harm he caused. I know well enough what he was."

"No, I doubt that, brothers-in-arms that you were. You still _understand_ him, don't you? You still agree with him that people need to be led. This from a man who gives such pretty speeches about honesty, from the great fool who can't see past his _own_ prejudices to trust those who are truly worthy of it!"

Poppy had yet to forgive Albus for seeking to control Severus after the boy's defection from the Death Eaters, despite the fact that the young wizard had given the headmaster his uninformed consent to effect such a measure. There was a variation of Zuccarum Innocuous that did more to Albus' lemon drops than render them less harmful to one's diet and teeth, though Minerva had not known it.

"I shall have to tell Ree what I have done, Poppy. I see that now," he promised, standing heavily and smoothing out his creased, burnt, and disintegrating robes.

Completely untouched, the witch replied, "Ree already knows of the perfidy to which she has been subjected. She is simply not yet aware of whom to blame for it."

"How can this be?"

"I don't know, but I've just seen her. The coercive magics you wrought upon her are breaking down, and it is clear that she is aware of what they mean for her memory. They smelt of _you_ , but the girl has never seen enough of your magic to know its _stink_."

With that, the witch left Albus' study with a purposefully loud crack.

A knock sounded on the door at the same moment.

"Enter," the headmaster called, too weary to pretend not to be present.

"Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore, I come bearing a missive from my master, Tancredo of the Wilds."

~*~

By nine o'clock, Harry was feeling, despite her mortification and sadness, almost . . . normal, so she was able to think clearly when Sirius entered the kitchen.

"Ree! Have you seen Remus?" he asked without preamble.

"I need to talk to—" she tried to say, but her godfather interrupted her with an outburst unlike any she had witnessed since his early days out of Azkaban.

"There's no time for that! He's missing! He's gone out and forgotten his potion, and he's missing!"

The witch stood, crossed the floor to where Sirius was rocking back and forth on the balls of his unsteady feet, and struck him hard across the face. "Focus! Who have you told, and where have you looked?" she commanded.

It never occurred to the wizard not to obey her.

"I came straight here. I thought—we had a fight—Remus usually comes here after we fight—but I had, I had lost time, Ree, in canine form, and I—"

"Enough!" Harry yelled, which silenced Sirius as quickly as striking him had. "Dobby!" she called.

The house elf appeared immediately.

"I want every house elf in the castle looking for Remus Lupin in both his human and lupine forms. If anyone should find him, subdue—can elves subdue a werewolf?" she asked Dobby, who nodded—"subdue him and alert Professor Dumbledore immediately."

Dobby disappeared without a word.

Harry turned back to Sirius. "I'm going to search the grounds."

Her godfather nodded. "I'll come, too."

"No," Harry said, "you'll sleep."

She levitated Sirius' body to lay it on a table just as Dobby returned to the kitchen. "That was fast."

"We is elves, Harry Potter, and this is our place to know—but Remus Lupin is _gone_ from Hogwarts."

"Can you search the grounds as quickly?"

Dobby hung his head. "We is needing the inside of things. The secrets in the outside is not ours. Dobby will summon help for Harry Potter to search."

"No, please don't. No one can know, Dobby. Guard the entrances, and don't allow anyone to leave the castle until I say so. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Harry Potter. Dobby understands. The wolf will hurts people who leave."

"Not if I can help it," the witch said, conjuring her broom and willing herself out of the castle.

~*~

Harry successfully "ignored" the anti-apparation wards around the castle to materialize high above the Astronomy Tower without thinking about how she managed it. What brief instruction in the use of the Gift she had accepted from Dumbledore was becoming increasingly useful to her. " _Extendus Visio!_ " she cried, expanding her capacity for sight to aid her survey of the grounds for Remus.

He was nowhere to be seen.

She did, however, catch sight of movement at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

_A centaur_ , she realized. _That's odd_.

The centaurs had refused to deal with anyone—even Hagrid—during the war, but they _had_ defended their territory when the fighting had begun in earnest. Harry shuddered to remember the mangled bodies of the Death Eaters and the other creatures that had been found piled near the forest's boundary closest to the ex-groundskeeper's hut. _Could Remus have gone into the woods?_

"No!" she exclaimed, and made for the shadowy figure with all due speed.

There was no one visible when Harry landed, so she kicked off the ground and levitated just inside of the tree line.

It was too quiet. Even the insects were still.

"Hello? Is there anyone here?"

"You are not welcome here, human," a voice behind her said.

The witch rose a little higher and pivoted to face the small herd of centaurs that had formed a horseshoe behind her.

"I mean no offence," she told the unfamiliar female centaur that stood a little ahead of the others.

"Yet you give it by your trespass."

"I am looking for a were—"

"Wolf," a large male centaur completed for her. "Yes, we seek the beast, as well. It attempted to breach our perimeter not long ago."

"Did you hur—see where it went?"

"Had we," the female centaur— _the leader_ , Harry realized—"we would not be clustered here."

"I know the human the beast becomes. I'm trying to sa—"

" _Save_ it?" demanded the head of the herd, scornfully. "The foolishness in that mercy is not to be forgiven. Such creatures need killing, human."

"No! I've a potion that will—"

"Human magic!" spat one of the males, pawing the ground.

"Right," the witch said, deciding to put an end to the non-discussion. "You _wouldn't_ be so close to the castle if the wolf had gotten _into_ your territory, would you?"

_Oh, shit_ , Harry thought when she received no response. _Oh, no_.

It had just occurred to her where Remus might have headed.

~*~

It was nine-thirty when Alastor Moody reached the Shrieking Shack after stopping at the Three Broomsticks to fortify himself—from his own flask, of course—before returning to the novitiate. He hated people, but he found the anonymity afforded by the drunken reveling of a pub a more settling prospect than that of having to be civil to the latest group of would-be-Aurors, and he had no desire to see Zabini.

A group of townsman had come in not long after he had arrived, making much out of the fact that the "old haunt," as the inhabitants of Hogsmeade referred to the Shrieking Shack, was living up to its reputation that night. Alastor had not liked the sound of that, so he had left the warmth of the pub to investigate the ramshackle old building. Standing before it in the snow, he almost regretted his prudence.

"Like as not they were just exaggerating for the benefit of their lady-friends," he said, drawing his wand and entering the place. " _Lumos!_ "

The shack looked as it always did—dusty, dreary, and _empty_. The Auror levitated some bits of broken bed and torn curtain to thoroughly examine the space, but saw nothing but mouse-droppings and more dust.

"Boasting, drunken fools!" Moody spat, rolling his magical eye across the floor and up the walls. 

He was clearly alone in the shack, and nothing had troubled to enter it for some time. Returning his wand to his sheath, he stepped outside into the clean, gusting wind and took a deep and welcome breath of air.

It never reached his lungs.

But as the werewolf, which had leapt from the roof of the shack, rolled him over to feast from the wound it had created when it had partially decapitated him with a claw, Alastor saw the moon slide out from behind the heavy cloud cover.

He knew this view, and had for years.

It was his last.

~*~

Harry heard the clock in Hogsmeade's town square chime once for nine-forty-five as she circled from behind the Shrieking Shack to its front door. There was nothing there but a dark greasy stain that led into the house.

No! the witch thought before she felt her emotions drain into the freezing cup in her mind she reserved for those occasions when feeling anything might get her killed. 

In battle, even rage might fail one. It tended to ebb at the most inopportune of moments.

Almost instantly quiescent and alert, Harry reached for her sword, flew into the shack, and stopped short at the scene before her.

The ravaged remains of an old man were laying in scattered pieces across the floor, and in the corner of the room, a werewolf— _Remus!_ —was gnawing on the tattered robes and flesh of an arm.

The creature did not hesitate when it saw the witch, but threw itself at Harry with a gore-spluttering growl.

It landed on a suddenly empty patch of floor—its claws scratching ineffectually for purchase—and slid into a wall.

Harry had apparated to a point just behind the creature, very near what she could now see was what was left of Alastor Moody. She did not waste time examining the remains.

" _Subiungas!_ " she commanded, and the wolf fell limply to the decaying slats of the floor.

Observing her work as if it was that of someone else, the witch thought about the nature of time, and about how there never seemed to be enough of it. She wanted a time-turner, or to act as one herself, so that she could change what had occurred. But she knew that her desire could never be satisfied.

_"Oh, it is tempting, the thought that we might work upon time, Harry,"_ Dumbledore had told her once. _"But, as we can never step outside of it, time is not ours to direct. And should we attempt to do so, I fear before long we would find ourselves somehow less than sane, and certainly_ not _intact."_

Albus was always talking about how one might apply "gentle guidance" to a situation, if one had enough information upon which to act.

_But when the act itself has occurred, what's left to do?_ "I have to hide this," Harry whispered to herself in answer. "I have to save Remus!"

~*~

"My actions have helped save many lives, Dumbledore, but my career as a courier is almost at an end," Vedette said gruffly, helping herself to another excellent sandwich the wizard had offered her.

After many years of subsisting primarily on what meat the Wilds afforded its inhabitants, the witch found herself grateful to partake of proper British beef, no matter how hastily it had been prepared.

Albus nodded in response to the woman's reply to his polite question while seeking to mask his anger and alarm that the contents of Tancredo's missive had provoked in himself. _It isn't_ time, he thought, worriedly. _I have not completed gathering the necessary ingredients_.

The witch was not offended by the wizard's abstraction. She knew Tancredo's business with Dumbledore was a weighty one. But she did have her instructions.

"The Boundary is weakening, and Master Tancredo is most interested in receiving his strengthening draught as soon as may be. Will providing it be a problem?"

"The potion requires time to prepare, Mrs. Sn—oh," he said, the darkening of the witch's face reminding him. "Please forgive me, _Vedette_. I had forgotten that you'd given up your surname." This seemed to mollify his guest, so he continued. "And Tancredo has called for it sooner than I had anticipated."

"That may be, Dumbledore, but our need is great. The ancient wards are tearing. The Song grows louder. Without a new casting of the Boundary, the old war will spill across more than the barrier between the Wilds and that of magical Britain. Would you risk the exposure of our world to Muggles? Would you risk the lives of everyone to keep to a _timetable?_ "

"I would _not_ , as I think you know. But how is it possible that the Boundary has begun to weaken?" Albus asked, his agitation plain.

"The master sees much, as _you_ know, but he has yet to discover that cause of the interference."

"'Interference'?" the wizard asked sharply.

"Someone has been trying to destroy the Boundary. There can be no other explanation for the tears in it. They are being _inflicted_."

Albus could not imagine anyone sane desiring to unleash the horrors of the Wilds upon the world. Not even _Voldemort_ would have done such a thing. That wizard had craved order above all else. But it might finally explain the interest in certain ancient artifacts.

"Someone has found a key, Vedette, an old, _broken_ key."

"Perhaps," she replied, "though most keys are destroyed out of hand now."

"The key of which I speak would be as old as the first casting of the Boundary, and there are yet a few remaining in the care of the Ministry."

"But those fools don't know what they have. Where else would such an item be found?"

"I have been monitoring archaeological activity in the vicinity of the First Kingdom, but have learnt nothing of use about the person or persons who must surely be directing the activity."

Vedette leaned forward in her chair. "Surely, someone comes to mind."

"Unfortunately," Albus said, leaning back into his own chair, "not."

But Vedette, ignorant as she was of all her master's secrets, was not fool enough to ignore the change of expression on the face of her host. "You don't want to know what this 'activity' might mean, do you?"

After a long moment, the wizard inclined his head in assent.

"Dumbledore, I know something of why Tancredo respects you, but I must speak. I will not permit my line to be slaughtered through the result of any hesitancy on your part. There is nothing honorable about _delay_. If you value your own . . . kingdom, your own _blood_ , you will not scruple to dissemble to yourself. Any suspicion you have as to the orchestrator of these events must be investigated at once."

"You have the right of it, of course. It is just that I thought I had already dealt with my old . . . brother-in-arms."

The witch stood. "Then your arrogance may be the ruin of us all," she bristled. "You did not kill him, did you?"

Albus also stood. "No. I did not."

"You are the veriest—"

"Fool," the wizard agreed. _And I do not know if I_ could _kill him now_.


	10. Chapter Nine: Changes on the Board

Hermione Granger received an unexpected visitor at ten o'clock in the frantic form of a disheveled-looking Ree Potter. The witch was more upset than the haruspex had ever seen her.

_And that's saying a lot_ , she thought, drawing Harry into her tiny front hall, taking her broomstick away, and pressing her gently into the next room to sit by the fire.

"What's happened?"

"You can't tell anyone," Harry said, sharply.

"You know that I would never—"

"Hermione, promise me!"

_Sweet Merlin! Their relationship hasn't even really_ begun, _and she's this disturbed_. "Of _course_ I promise, Ree."

Inexplicably, the witch replied, "Don't call me that anymore."

"All right. Re— _Harry_. Did something . . . were there _reporters?_ "

"What?"

"At the Gryphon's Foote? I would have thought that Pro— _Severus_ would have _prepared_ him—"

"This isn't about _him!_ Remus . . . Remus is—he killed Alastor Moody!"

"Rubbish!" Hermione exclaimed, drawing a calming hand down Harry's arm to clasp her friend's fingers—her bloody fingers.

The haruspex found herself surrounded by the scent of copper and a wound of red, sliding over bits best left unexamined as she saw Harry wrapping someone's remains in what she sensed was a conjured sheet.

"You see?"

Somewhat shaken, as always she was after a vision, Hermione said, "Yes, I _do_ see. . . . But you've blood on you."

"Shit!" 

Striding from the room, Harry went into the hall to cast a " _Scourgify!_ " on her broom and her hands, and then returned to her dazed friend.

"I'm sorry, Mione. I thought that I'd gotten it all."

_Thank the gods that Viktor isn't here to hear this_ , Hermione thought. "Tell me what happened."

"Remus and Sirius . . . they fought, and then there wasn't time to take the potion, and I don't know what to do now," Harry said, throwing herself down on the sofa.

_That would explain it_ , Hermione thought. She knew very well that recent brewings of the Wolfsbane draught had been so successful that Professor Lupin had been able to communicate in wolf form, and that he did not need to be locked up at the full moon any longer. Professor Snape had been so pleased by his results that he was planning to exhibit them at the Assembly's forum on potion making. _So why_ wouldn't _he take_ —"Who else knows?" she said, rather than follow her own thoughts.

She realized that there truly was not time if what Ree—Harry—had said was true.

"No one! I told you—you _can't_ say anything!" Harry exclaimed, sitting up to grab at her friend's hands.

"Harry! You secured the _students_ , didn't you?"

"Of course I did—house elves!"

This was enough to let Hermione realize what steps her friend must have taken, but it still did not answer her most pressing question. "You didn't _tell_ anyone?" she asked, scandalized.

"Tell them what? That we needed to form hunting parties?"

"Of course, not! But—"

"Hermione, that doesn't matter. What do I do _now?_ "

Both women were startled as a voice from the kitchen door answered Harry's question. "You find a witness."

Hermione recovered herself first. "What are you doing here, Ginny?"

"I had thought to get away from Mum's nagging, but my evening's proved a little more exciting."

"What happened to _you?_ Are you all right?" Hermione asked, suddenly worried.

"Oh, gods! _Don't_ mother me, Hermione. I'm fine. I've just come from helping Madame Rosmerta subdue a vampire, is all."

"What?" Harry asked.

"I don't think she's going to turn it in, either, which means she might agree to allow us to use it as an explanation for Remus."

"Ginny, we've got to report this," Hermione said, scandalized once again.

The redheaded curse-breaker looked at her equably. "Exactly."

"Vampires don't come to Hogsmeade," Harry said.

"Well, _this_ one did—and it would have exploded into fiery bits if I hadn't aimed so widely, but Rosmerta managed him well enough. She put out his clothing and dragged him into her stable. I'm not sure I understand what spell she used to do it, but it was an impressive piece of work."

"You didn't hear the spell, or you don't think she used one?"

"Well, _of course_ she used a spell, Harry," Ginny replied as if to a young child. "This is _Rosmerta_ we're talking about. It just got lost in their scuffling. But it was pretty powerful."

_Rosmerta must be 'pretty powerful'_ , Harry suddenly realized. _And_ old.

"Why didn't _she_ call the Aurors?" Hermione asked.

"She said, 'Ginevra, this unfortunate business is my own. I would be grateful if you'd forget about it', so I did. I certainly didn't feel like discovering what _other_ spells the woman knows. I _am_ on vacation, you know."

The haruspex now looked thoroughly exasperated. "I don't believe _either_ of you—all _three_ of you! These things need to be—"

"Reported," finished Ginny. "I know, and something tells me that Madame Rosmerta won't mind if we use her vampire to explain Master Moody."

The three young witches thought about it for a moment, and then Hermione said, "Well, don't just _stand_ there. Go ask her."

~*~

Blaise was approaching the Three Broomsticks at just after eleven when the two official-looking wizards stepped outside of the pub.

"Bad business, that," one of the men said to the other, who had stopped to light a pipe.

"Indeed," his colleague replied, taking a few puffs from the stem. "Shocking."

"To think that one of those vile creatures would dare attack a man—in Hogsmeade."

"Forgive me, gentlemen," Blaise interrupted smoothly. "I'm Zabini from Novitiate One, and I couldn't help but overhear you."

"Ah, Moody's second-in-command!" the wizard who wasn't smoking said, extending his hand to take Blaise's proffered one. "I'm afraid we've some terrible news for you, young man."

The other wizard also shook hands with Blaise.

"What's happened?" the Auror asked.

The wizard with the pipe exhaled. "You've just been promoted."

~*~

Harry had known the identity of Rosmerta's vampire immediately upon seeing the being. She had sent Ginny to fetch the publican and gone directly to the woman's stables. She was not as convinced as was Ginny that Rosmerta would agree to their plan. Harry had cast a disconcealment charm to find Tagliaferro dangling from his ankles from one of the stall beams, his naked body full of red, weeping gouges. He was being bled dry into little floating dark blue bottles.

"I told him not to return to me," Rosmerta said from behind Harry.

But the witch had "seen" the publican coming, so she did not flinch. She knew what came next. Now that she had embraced her Gift, she could appreciate its benefits.

"You've obliviated Ginny."

"That isn't a question. My, Albus was right about you, wasn't he?"

Harry did not respond. She was perversely fascinated by the trails of blood twisting down the vampire's body.

"You needn't worry about Ginevra. I'll be certain to place some Pepper-Up by her bed, and all she'll remember is a night of drinking alone at the tap. You'll see to Miss Granger's memory, I trust?"

"Of course."

Rosmerta laughed.

"Won't Mrs. Zabini miss her servant?"

"For Zoroastrid to have sent him at all is a sign that she was finished with him. I shall await one of her signature thank you notes."

Harry laughed, a hollow sound. "You've no objection to the plan, then?"

"None. Miss Weasley is quite thorough, but I believe we must also consider your heartfather."

Without reacting to the vampire's use of her name for Remus, Harry turned to look expectantly at the woman.

"In about twenty minutes, you'll enter the pub with your news. By then, dear Remus will be in my cellar, and an unpleasant tableau ready for viewing at the Shrieking Shack. I am certain that those fools from the Ministry will be _delighted_ by the carnage."

"Thank you," Harry had forced herself to say, feeling vaguely ill in the face of Rosmerta's cheerful efficiency. "Why . . . why are you helping me?"

Sometime later as she slipped into the cellar of the Three Broomsticks to see to Remus, the witch _did_ flinch to remember the publican's sardonic response to her question: "It's just that people _talk_ , dear, and the tale I've had of your early evening from Terpsichore Toadhopple-Thompson this night was as satisfying a tale as any I've heard in a long time."

_I'll never feel the slightest qualm about hating you again, you vindictive, murderous, bi_ —"Oh!" Harry gasped, as she saw Remus.

He was lying in a heap of clean fur and warm blankets, a protective ward shimmering around him.

_She cleaned you so that you wouldn't know what you'd done_.

"Damn. I _can't_ hate you, can I?" she whispered, thinking of Rosmerta and remembering the last thing the woman had said to her: " _Good night, Miss Potter—and congratulations_."

_I'll never understand her_ , Harry thought. "Good night, Remus."

~*~

"Good evening, Harry," Albus Dumbledore greeted the witch as she entered her chamber to the chime of the clock.

It was seven minutes to midnight.

"Headmaster," she acknowledged the man, closing her mind.

"I must admit," the wizard said, looking perplexed and somewhat disappointed, "that I was surprised to find you not in Severus' quarters."

"Was _he_ there?" Harry asked before she could stop herself and without registering how odd it was that the wizard would posit such an opinion.

Albus considered her. "No, he wasn't."

_Can't face you, yet, I expect_. "Well, you've found me. What is it?"

"Would you care for a cup of tea? I can see that your evening must have gone badly."

_Only_ you _would think it proper to entertain someone in her own quarters_. Harry thought, sitting in the chair opposite the one Albus had taken and shaking her head. She had accepted a cup of tea from a rather confused-looking Dobby only moments before. "No, thank you."

"Well. . . . I've had some distressing news, Harry."

_When did you start calling me Harry again?_ the witch wondered, somewhat disturbed by the change in spite of the fact that it was she who wished to make it. _It's not possible that you see everything. I_ know _you don't. You_ told _me you didn't_. He _told you he didn't, you_ idiot, she realized. _Shit_.

Albus merely watched her, the skin between his eyes wrinkling as if in concentration.

_That's right, you old bastard. Keep trying_. "What news, Sir?" she asked without emotion.

"Alastor Moody was killed tonight."

"If you know that much, then you know I found him," Harry snapped.

"Indeed."

"Then why not just say so?"

"Because it's a difficult thing to accept—a vampire attack in Hogsmeade—that such a creature could have so brutally taken the life of one of my oldest friends."

_You feign sorrow well enough, don't you?_ "I'm sorry I wasn't the one to tell you, but I needed to . . . clear my head," the witch replied, affecting a look of loss and bewilderment. "Who told you?"

"Madame Rosmerta was kind enough to perform that service."

"Of course."

"I would appreciate it if you could tell me what it is that you saw, Harry."

_I know my name. What is it that you really want to remind me of?_

As much as the woman loved and admired Albus, her anger needed to be directed somewhere, and she was no longer willing to be treated like a piece on a chessboard—not when she had begun to move her _own_ pieces.

"Harry? Would it be too much of a burden for you to—"

"I was in Hogsmeade. Flying. I wanted to . . . clear my head. And then I heard the screaming. I didn't make it to Master Moody fast enough, but I _did_ destroy his murderer. You know the rest."

"All the rest that is going to be told, I am certain," Albus replied in a tone that did not convey conviction.

Feeling the wizard's subtle attempts to probe her mind, Harry spat, "Leave it, Albus! I'm not sharing the memory with you! I don't want to remember it!"

"Forgive me. I thought that if you talked about it—"

"You _weren't_ talking just now."

"No. Old habits, best intentions—but these do not excuse the . . . invasion of your privacy."

"Attempted invasion of my privacy."

"As you say."

A lull fell in the conversation, and each interlocutor became lost in his and her own thoughts.

"I had not thought to attend a _funeral_ again until my own," Albus said.

Harry looked at the headmaster accusingly. "Tell me something."

"Anything."

"What is a Declaration of Intent?"

"Ah," Albus replied. "It is a document given to the parents—or the family—of a witch a wizard wishes to formally court with the intention of wedding her. It is a mark of his respect for the woman and her family, and a gesture of his intention to adhere to Wizarding cultural standards."

"Which 'cultural standards' would those be? The ones designed to ensure the purity of blood?"

"There are those who look upon the Courtship Rites as such a protection, but this was not what motivated Severus, surely. In fact, though I am surprised that he did not immediately . . . consummate his love for you, I am _not_ shocked to discover that he has sought to observe the other proprieties in his courtship of you."

"I expect you _aren't_."

"Do not misunderstand me, Harry. I did not encourage Severus to woo you in this way. You may verify my belief that you and he would have already . . . celebrated your love with Miss Granger."

"As much as I enjoy your euphemisms, Albus, I don't know how Hermione—"

"At the recent impromptu dance, Miss Granger and I had a brief discussion about the progression of your relationship with Severus."

"You and Hermione were betting on the likelihood that Severus and I would _shag?_ "

"Indeed. Would you care to tell me why you and he haven't?"

"No! Perhaps you haven't noticed how out of charity I am with you, Headmaster."

"You are mistaken in that, as well, Harry. But I would venture to say that you are more angry with your Potions master than you are with me."

"Severus isn't _mine_. . . . He doesn't even . . . he doesn't love me."

"Certainly that reasoning would explain why he felt the need to spend half a year's salary on reserving the Terrace to secure your hand in marriage."

"Half a year's?" Harry choked out, suddenly feeling all of her anger flood out the soles of her feet.

Albus stood and approached the witch, laying a warm hand on her shoulder. "Severus loves you more profoundly than I suspect even _he_ knows, dear girl. That he has difficulty expressing it comes as no surprise to me. . . . But I suspect that only he will be able to prove that to you."

Harry said nothing. Her evening's exertions had begun to tell on her strength, and now all she could think about was sleeping.

"Would you like for me to take your classes tomorrow?"

"No, thank you, Headmaster," she whispered. "I have detentions to assign."

"As you will. Good night."


	11. Chapter Ten: Toward Domestic Tranquility

As the Witching Hour approached, Severus found himself wandering past the shops of Diagon Alley, quite shaken by the events of his evening. He had not been able to face going back to Hogwarts, despite his desperation to know where Harry had gone and how she was. He did feel absurdly grateful to Zoroastrid for preventing him from having murdered Draco and stopping the scene he had caused from getting worse, but he knew that his altercation with the boy on the dance floor would be in all the papers on the morrow.

_No_ , he corrected himself. _Later today. At least Harry was not there to see it_.

The house elf, Milkie, had told them that Dobby had taken Harry home, so, despite his desire to go to her, to tell her everything before the first run of the _Daily Prophet_ found its way to the school, he could find some solace in the knowledge that his lover was safe.

_My lover_ , he thought, disconsolately. _She will never truly be that now, will she?_ "But how could she doubt me?" he whispered to no one. Zoroastrid's parting words rose as an answer in his mind: _"Severus, a girl likes to be told."_

The witch had dispensed this bit of wisdom when she had returned his wand to him _after_ Narcissa had insisted that she and her son had to return to the crowd.

Narcissa had always cared more for appearances than anything else.

Had her son looked frightened of his mother? Snape wondered, stopping to examine the glittering dress robes on display in Madam Malkin's window. She had decorated it grandly to reflect the themes of the upcoming Assembly.

The entire situation, once he, Draco, and Narcissa had calmed themselves—nothing ever seemed to perturb Zoroastrid—had been surreal. The unlikely party had drunk wine and discussed trivialities, and then Narcissa had asked him if he really intended to court the _Girl_ Who Lived.

_"Really, darling, I cannot imagine what you're about there. It makes me wonder how thorough your care of her has been."_

_"Cissa, be nice," the witch's lover chided her._

_"That is none of your concern, Widow Malfoy," Severus said._

_"Oh, I agree with Mother. People might be very interested in such a matter, should the professor press his suit. It's a serious business, the idea of impropriety between an instructor and his student."_

Severus had not actually considered that, as ridiculous as he knew it was. _I_ never _took advantage of Harry. No one who knows me would—and Albus will vouch for my_ —"Oh, gods!" he spat, realizing the extent of his guilt.

He _had_ been in a position of authority over the girl. He _had_ toyed with her affections. He _was_ a former Death Eater, and no one other than Albus Dumbledore truly knew him. It did not matter that Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had accepted his declaration for Harry; _their_ reputations were not much better than his own.

And Narcissa's threat—Draco's threat—had been clear: Pursue the girl, and we will see to it that your actions be put on public trial.

Severus could not bear the thought of what such a scandal would do to Harry. He had been a fool to hope that she would ever accept him, that they could ever make an honest life together.

"A normal life," he whispered, knowing that, more than anything, Harry craved domestic tranquility. _She could never have such a life with such as I. I must . . I must let her go_.

The shop door by which he was now standing flung open a little wider; in his musings, Severus had not noticed it open at all. He cursed himself for his inattention.

The elderly wizard in the doorframe smiled kindly at him.

"Well, good morning, boy," Mr. Ollivander greeted him. "You look like you could use a dish of strong tea, and I am most curious to know what your idea of 'a normal life' might be."

With nowhere else to go, the younger wizard followed the proprietor inside his shop without a word.

~*~

Blaise was exultant as he poured himself a fire whiskey and perused the papers on Alastor Moody's— _no, my_ , he corrected himself—desk. It seemed that the old man's last task before leaving the novitiate the previous day—for now it was well after midnight—had been to write the midterm fitness reports on the latest group of trainees.

"Never you mind about your 'tendency toward impulsiveness', the wizard said, reading over the assessment of Rory Stephens that the late master had prepared. "I find your lack of foresight to be an asset."

It was so much easier to lead people who tended toward making precipitous actions.

"Do you, now?" Rosmerta asked from behind him, her voice betraying nothing other than conciliatory sweetness.

The newest master of Novitiate One forbore to comment on the fact that he had not heard his lover enter the room. Since his conversation with Professor Snape after Ree's "final" letters had been read, he had known her secret. In fact, he had suspected it for some time before that conversation. And while he found her secretive ways and lack of emotional openness rather irksome at times, being involved with a vampire had its benefits. As a Zabini, Blaise knew them all quite well.

"Have you come to congratulate me then?"

Rosmerta sat down on the corner of the heavy wooden desk and reached out to caress the boy's face. "I fear not, my love. There is something I have to tell you about your old tutor."

"Tagliaferro?" he asked, concerned.

"The very same. It would seem that your mother's . . . disapproval of us has taken a murderous turn."

Blaise jerked his head away from Rosmerta's fingers. "What do you mean?"

"Did you not wonder, dearest, how a vampire came to be in Hogsmeade? You know that I do not permit such creatures the freedom to roam my streets without permission."

"What are you telling me?"

"Tagliaferro left me rather . . . disturbed. Oh, I did not kill him," the publican lied mildly, "in spite of his insult to me. But it seems that his need for vengeance led him to attack the wrong person."

"But Moody was clearly—I mean, it was apparently clear that he did not—"

"No, he didn't kill Tagliaferro. Did not the gentleman from the Ministry inform you of the particulars? They were remiss not to have given you a thorough report."

In actuality, it was Blaise who had, affecting terrible grief at the discovery of his master's death, asked the wizards from the Non-Magical Creatures unit of the Department of Auror Activities to leave off the description of the man's death. "It's enough, for tonight, to know the man is dead," he had told Messrs. Brown and Gulhilly. Blaise had assumed that the old Auror had managed to destroy his attacker. It _was_ Alastor Moody.

"Who did it? Who killed my mother's servant?"

"I see. You were too ambitious to desire to know before, is that right?"

"Just tell me, damn you!"

"It seems that your very good friend Ree Potter had that unfortunate duty, my darling. It was she who discovered your master being attacked."

"Ree?" Blaise asked, standing.

Rosmerta stood, as well. "Yes. The poor girl was in abject despair over finding Alastor too late. She killed Tagliaferro as he was ripping out the man's throat."

The wizard did not respond. He stood rigidly as his lover enfolded him in the cool comfort of her arms and tried not to tremble in his fury. _That bitch! If Draco hadn't made me swear_ not _to kill her I'd_ —

"Ah, young Malfoy," Rosmerta whispered into Blaise's hair.

He cursed himself for leaving his thoughts so unguarded.

"He _does_ esteem Ree highly, does he not? But then, that would explain it."

"Explain _what?_ " the man asked, nuzzling the woman's neck.

"Explain what Terpsichore told me this evening."

Blaise tensed again, waiting. He hated always being the last to know important information.

"Narcissa Malfoy announced this evening at the Gryphon's Foote that she was filing a Claim of Courtship for Ree Potter on behalf of her son."

Blaise pulled away from Rosmerta. "I know that. I was there."

"Of course you were, darling."

"She did it _without_ Draco's consent! He doesn't want Ree like that. He assured me that the entire announcement was a farce, a way to explain his argument with Snape!"

The vampire laughed, a triumphant sound. "Is that what the clever boy told you?"

"Yes!"

"Then why, my dear, did the young man say, in the presence of witnesses as recounted by Terpsichore, that he felt confident his suit of the girl would not fail?"

Without warning, the Auror was ripping through the strings of Rosmerta's bodice with desperate fingers, pulling at them until he had her gown loose enough to slide over her body and pool around her ankles.

"Yes, that's right, my love. Take me. Take _me_ ," the witch gasped, allowing Blaise to press savage kisses down her neck and onto her breasts as she deftly unbuttoned his trousers. "I want you. I want you—oh!"

But the wizard did not hear his lover's cries. His every thought was of his need for Draco and his hatred of Ree. _I will have you, I will have you, I will have you_ , he chanted in his mind.

Even if it meant that he had to destroy the object of his beloved's obsession, even if it meant turning oath-breaker in his dealings with she who had served as his benefactress for years, he would have Ree Potter's life.

~*~

The Widow Malfoy examined her flawless skin in the gilt mirror of Zoroastrid's dressing table. Her lover was sleeping now, having exorcized her displeasure with Narcissa in quite the most refreshing bout of erotic exercise they had engaged in for some time.

It was always a pleasure to push Zoroastrid so far that the witch lost all control of herself. Narcissa fancied herself the only person who had ever been able to compel such a response from the dignified matriarch of House Zabini. _But then, I have had significant practice at it of late, haven't I?_

Malfoy felt the triumph of yesterday evening keenly. _Finally, my boy is behaving as a credit to his name_.

Oh, the woman knew that her "little announcement," as she playfully referred to it, was not what Draco had wanted, but she knew her boy. _Draco needs to possess things in order to feel secure_.

And Narcissa needed the security that would come from the absorption of Ree Potter into her family, _under my control_.

With the coming of the Assembly, the witch felt she would finally be in a position to show Wizarding Britain what Lord Voldemort had failed to do, that a return to the old ways was a necessity if it were to remain strong.

_Only the purest blood will yield the strongest magic. And soon_ , she reflected, allowing the confidence that Lucius had always displayed to adorn her visage, _we will need all of the magic that we have left at our disposal_.

Zoroastrid murmured softly in her sleep, disturbed by the coldness of the bed caused by Narcissa's absence.

Her lover sighed, gazing one last wistful time at the glass. _I miss your face, my_ husband, she thought.

But some sacrifices were worth making toward the preservation of one's race.

"Ree Potter may bear the taint of a mudblood in her veins, but I know how to relieve her children of that burden. . . . _Concelarus!_ " the witch whispered, tapping the book she had been reading before she had indulged herself with the looking glass.

The battered green leather volume of the second copy of the _Grimoire Nigromantia_ faded into nothingness, and Narcissa shrank the invisible book and placed it in the locket around her neck with practiced fingers before returning to bed.

She needed her rest. She fully expected to entertain her honorary "nephew" in the morning. And, of course, there would be the increasing flurry of scrolls from the Ministry with which to deal.

~*~

Molly Weasley was furious with her husband. "How can you be so calm about it all?" she demanded of Arthur, who was wrapped around his wife and seemingly oblivious to her distress.

"Molly, she's old enough to keep out of trouble, and you haven't given her a moment's peace since she's been home."

"I'm her _mother_. I worry. It's _unconscionable_ that she should stay out all night!"

"Perhaps," Arthur suggested as he placed gentle kisses on his wife's head, "Ginny went off to follow your advice."

"Oh, you!" the witch said, rolling away from her husband. "How can you even tease me about such a thing? Our Ginny! _Really_."

"She's a grown woman, Molly. And she is _our_ daughter."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Arthur snorted into his arm. "You've always accepted the appetites of our boys, dear. Why should Ginny be any different?"

Molly threw herself out of bed. "Arthur Weasley, don't talk rubbish! Ginevra would never _dream_ of carrying on like a common—"

"Young, healthy, vigorous woman?" he completed in his most reasonable—and his most infuriating—tone of voice.

"Ginny is a good girl. She'll wait for marriage."

The Minister of Magic raised an eyebrow at his wife's hypocrisy, but wisely remained silent. Remaining silent had proved an invaluable skill in both his professional and personal lives.

"You don't really believe that our girl is—"

"Of _course not_ , Molly dear. Before I came up to bed, I received an owl from Madame Rosmerta. Ginny is sleeping at the Three Broomsticks tonight—alone."

"You great beast!" Molly shouted, grabbing her pillow and hitting her husband with it repeatedly. "You've known where she was for hours, and you didn't tell me?"

The man laughed and caught his wife's arm, easily forcing her to surrender her pillow. "Be fair, Molly. Up until a few minutes ago, we were too preoccupied with ourselves to be worrying about _Ginny's_ activities."

Mrs. Weasley glared at her husband, but only half-heartedly. She was almost ready to forgive his idiotic teasing now that she knew that her youngest child was safely under the protection of Rosmerta. "At least _someone_ understands what is due maternal worrying!"

_Yes, I'm certain that is Rosmerta's main concern_ , Arthur thought sarcastically, but he was soon too taken up with his wife's relieved attentions to consider the attributes of any other woman. _Molly's consistency is my constant joy_ , he thought, gratefully taking his wife into his arms once more.

~*~

"—and the infernal inconsistency of women is something I will _never_ comprehend!" Severus exclaimed, swinging out an arm in emphasis.

Mr. Ollivander had quickly seen the sense in getting his young guest well and truly pissed. The wizard had been so tightly wound before the old man had offered him a bit of Warder's that he had thought the boy might snap his spine, so stiffly was he sitting in his chair.

_But now we're getting somewhere_ , Ollivander told himself as he surreptitiously cast a cleaning spell on the carpet where the contents of Severus' glass had sloshed.

"Do you mean to tell me that the young woman rejected your declaration of love, my boy? That _is_ distressing, to be sure," he said, refilling his guest's glass.

Severus downed the alcohol in one gulp, a bit embarrassed that he had just made a mess like a common schoolboy. "Pardon me, what did you just say?"

"I asked you," Ollivander replied patiently, "if Miss Potter rejected your declaration of love."

The Potions master stopped his agitated pacing. The liquor had loosened his tongue to an appalling degree, and he had not really been listening to the questions of the wand-maker. This question, however, seemed important.

"Well, I did not make a declaration—not in so many _words_ ," he mumbled, wondering why he found it so easy to unburden himself to the other man.

Ollivander gave an inward chuckle. _It's always the same with the sensitive ones_ , he thought, pleased with his company despite the fact that the boy was an idiot. _They're so afraid of their own desires that they repress them in unhealthy ways_.

His _own_ sons, the man reflected, had been raised to appreciate the necessity of the well-taken risk in the arena of amorous battle. He could see that Snape had failed his _only_ son terribly in this area, but given the wand that had chosen the elder man, it did not surprise him. _Willow, seven inches, kneazle knuckles_.

"Tell me, son, just how _did_ you convey your regard for the girl?"

Severus started a bit at the other wizard's paternal tone. It was entirely outside of his experience, though not, in his current condition, unwelcome. "I told you—the Terrace, the story, the Declaration of Intent—surely these things were sufficient expressions of love."

"Give me that glass, young man," Ollivander ordered Severus.

He conjured a small dark blue bottle and upended its contents into the empty vessel. Handing it back, he bade the younger wizard to drink it.

He did, and yelped as smoke began to pour from his ears. "Gah! Pepper-Up! Why did you give me _that?_ "

"Don't speak of it so derisively, Severus. It's Madame Rosmerta's finest."

The fog lifted from the Potions master immediately, but he ears did not ring. He would have known that it was one of Rosmerta's brews without having been told. _Her potions have always been smoother than mine_.

"Feeling better?"

"No—yes—well— _thank_ you."

"Now then, you've had your rant and your carouse, and now it's time to consider matters clearly."

"I do not even begin to know how to . . . 'consider' matters, Mr. Ollivander. I have made a cock-up of the entire business."

"Oh, I quite agree with you there."

Calmer now, it suddenly occurred to Severus to find Ollivander's solicitousness suspicious. Almost rudely, he asked, "Why are you being so kind to me?"

The other wizard chuckled. "You wouldn't remember, of course, you were much too young when Mafalda—that was my wife's name, Merlin rest her—and I used to visit your family at Snape Manor. My wife and your grandmother were great friends."

"Were they?" Severus asked, wishing he had some memory of what perhaps had been happier days in his home. "Well."

"'Well', indeed! Tell me, how _is_ Vedette these days?"

The wizard felt a childish pang of longing for his absent grandparent. "I honestly could not say. I have not seen her for years."

"Ah, that was always her way, wasn't it? She has always loved her travels. But come! I won't feel easy in my bones until we've sorted you out, boy. Vedette would never forgive me if I allowed you to persist in your ill-reasoned assumptions about your future."

Slightly offended, Severus took a rather stiff posture on the edge of the well-worn chair in which he had begun his drinking.

"Don't get your back up over my bluntness, young man. You can't possibly see how easily remedied your present predicament is. Trust me for a bit of a lesson."

"And what might your qualifications be to guide me?" the Potions master asked acerbically.

"Sixty-two years of a reasonably happy marriage, seven sons, nine daughters, thirty-one grandchildren, fifty-eight great-grandchildren, and the next generation about to be born any day now."

"Wand-making must indeed be a profitable enterprise."

"You have no idea."

_I'm not certain I want one_ , the younger wizard thought. He had never considered having a family of his own.

Ollivander regarded him as if he knew what was in his mind. "You're never prepared for fatherhood, young man, but I don't doubt that with your passionate nature you'll have a family in no time."

Severus snorted. "You may be the only person to have ever considered me in that light."

"Oh, I doubt that. Now then, enough of this fiddle-faddling about. I know exactly what you need to do in order to remedy this mess of yours."

"Pray enlighten me, Mr. Ollivander," Severus replied as respectfully as he could.

The older wizard leaned forward in his chair and peered at his guest over the rims of his spectacles as if about to impart the most profound secret in all the world, and said, "You need to take what's yours."

~*~

Severus knew that he was going to need more than another dose of Pepper-Up Potion to get through his day as he entered his chamber just after dawn. _At least I won't have a hangover_ , he thought, shucking his borrowed robe and hanging it over the hat stand by the door.

Before taking another step, however, he froze.

He was not alone.

There was the sound of bacon frying in a pan, but he did not smell it. Rather, the noxious odor of sulphur and eldritch assaulted his nostrils—the scents one might expect to linger after a banishment.

Uncertain of what to expect, and back in his customary cautious frame of mind, the former spy drew his wand and quietly snuck toward the kitchen.

Granny Jasper stood over a sizzling pan of meat and eggs on the stove.

Without looking up, the witch ordered, "Don't skulk, boy! This is your own home, you know!"

Severus was too astonished to say anything.

His grandmother put down the spatula she was holding and deftly relieved him of his wand, "tsking" at him as she did so.

"It's no wonder you couldn't deal with that annoying haunt on your own as easily flummoxed as you are!" she declared, stretching up to kiss her grandson's cheek and almost immediately pulling away in disgust. "By the Four Great Hells, boy! Go scrub out your mouth—you smell like a brewery!"


	12. Chapter Eleven: Learning the Consequences

"Dobby?" Harry asked sleepily as she woke at dawn to the sounds of the house elf building up the fire.

The witch had slept in her chair, and the sense of emotional numbness that had prevented her from leaving it to go to her bed after Albus had left her had lifted enough so that she could appreciate the soreness of both her heart and her body.

"Harry Potter is awake," the house elf said tartly.

"Don't house elves ever sleep?"

Wiping his hands and turning to look at the witch, he replied only, "Yes, yes, house elves sleep, Harry Potter."

_He's mad at me_ , she realized, straightening in her chair to observe her friend closely. "Are you all right?"

"Harry Potter has become a very powerful wizard," the elf spat.

"You _aren't_ all right, are you?" _Could my spell have . . . harmed him in some way?_

"Yes, yes, very powerful," was his only response.

Harry stood up, very worried now. "Dobby, please tell me what I did to make you angry."

The diminutive being shrank a little from the witch, his ears quivering with an unidentifiable emotion.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"Dobby is thinking that Harry Potter may wants herself a new house elf since Harry Potter does not trust her Dobby. Yes, yes, and maybe she would not like any elves at all!"

"What do you mean? You're not 'my' elf!"

"Dobby _knew_ it!"

"You're your _own_ elf, Dobby! My _friend!_ I don't know why—"

The elf hopped up on the mantle over Harry's hearth so that he could look the witch in the eye, his usual eager expression now one of wary discontent. "Dobby is not having many wizard friends, Harry Potter, but Dobby is not stupid! Dobby is knowing that friends is trusting each other always!"

_Oh, no!_ Harry thought, understanding at last what the elf was indignant about. _Apparently, one_ can't _obliviate house elves_.

"Milkie is furious at the 'Malkinniny' man she is working for, Harry Potter. Milkie is asking for a Hogwarts' job, she is. But Dobby is not knowing if even _Milkie_ will serve the great and powerful Harry Potter after what Harry Potter is doing to Dobby and the other house elves," he said quickly, pacing back and forth along the mantle.

"Let me explain, plea—"

Large, unshed tears were welling up at the corner of the elf's eyes as he stopped to regard the witch, and seeing how much she had hurt the loyal being stilled Harry's tongue.

"But Dobby will ask, Harry Potter. He is knowing _someone_ is needing to look after even very powerful witches."

"Do the others know?" Harry asked, thoroughly ashamed of herself.

Some of the house elf's ire faded as he saw how upset his tirade had made his favorite person. "They is _not_ knowing, Harry Potter. They is too dear to Dobby to be knowing. Milkie is free. Dobby is free. We is knowing, and _only_ we is knowing."

"I'm sorry for what I did, Dobby. I was only trying to protect Remus."

"Yes, yes, Dobby is knowing that—Dobby is wanting that, too. But Dobby is not serving the great Harry Potter any longer. Dobby is thinking he _likes_ to be trusted. Milkie is going to be serving Harry Potter, or Harry Potter is going to be serving her own great and powerful self! Dobby is not wanting the other elves to have Harry Potter's kind of _friendship!_ "

With that, the sad and wrathful little being vanished from Harry's chambers.

The witch sank heavily back into her chair, wondering how she was going to survive the rest of the day.

~*~

Sirius woke with a start and flung himself off of the unmade bed. "Remus?" he called.

"What?" growled a voice from the next room.

"Remus!" Sirius cried, running into the sitting room and slipping ungracefully on the papers that still littered the floor. "Ouch!"

His lover favored him with a balefully look before flipping over to face the back of the sofa. "You ought to try walking," he said grumpily, trying to Sirius, who was sprawled on the floor.

The other wizard picked himself up and approached the sofa cautiously. "I ought to try _apologizing_ ," he said emphatically, leaning over Remus and touching his shoulder.

"Well?"

Sirius chuckled softly and pushed the recumbent man over a bit with his hip as he joined Remus on the sofa. "I apologize, love. I was totally out of line last night."

"Try harder, you loutish beast," Remus whispered, snuggling a little against his lover's body in spite of himself.

Sirius bent down to kiss Remus' neck, nipping at it playfully. "I'd love to," he said, breathing the words over the rising indentations in his lover's flesh.

But the other wizard was not to be placated so easily. He pulled away from Sirius, sat up, and staggered off the sofa, a bit unclear about the events following their spat, but sure of one thing. "It's always about _sex_ with you, isn't it?" he groused, pulling down his jumper and glaring down at the other man.

"Don't be like this, Remus. I said I was sorry!"

"It's a nice change, but it doesn't explai—"

"Love?" Sirius asked, following Remus' gaze to the little table situated by the attached foyer of the sitting room. A goblet of Wolfsbane Potion was sitting atop it.

It was undrunk.

"Oh, Merlin!" the two wizards said in a tandem exhalation.

_How is it possible?_ Remus thought, feeling a cold finger of horror trace his spine.

"You didn't take your potion?"

"I didn't take my potion. But how . . . how?" Remus asked, unable to form his racing thoughts into a coherent expression.

Suddenly, Sirius was holding him so tightly that he found it difficult to breathe. "It's all right, love. It _must_ be all right. You're _here_ , aren't you?"

But the werewolf was unconvinced of the soundness of the situation. Snape's potions had improved his response to his transformation to an amazing degree—

"But I still have to change."

"Well, maybe you did, but there was enough left-over potion in your system to let you control yourself."

"No, Sirius. It doesn't work like that," Remus said faintly. He broke away from his lover to regard him solemnly. "We need to check the . . . castle."

Without further discussion, the two wizards rushed from their rooms.

~*~

Viktor Krum was not usually a nervous man, but on this particular Wednesday morning, he found himself deeply concerned as he made his way toward the home of Hermione Granger.

 _I am fooling myself_ , he thought. _Aren't I?_

He and the medi-witch had been getting along splendidly, and Percy doted on his "Unky Krum," but Hermione had never responded in kind to his romantic overtures. She stubbornly treated his regard as if it were only a friendly consideration on his part, despite his every attempt to impress upon the witch how much he loved her.

As the Assembly drew closer—it was to begin the first of the new year—Viktor had been thinking that he might persuade Hermione to attend the festivities with him—the Courtship Rites in particular. _If only she could see how well we would suit, perhaps then she would_ —he stopped his thoughts as he reached the door to Cottage Granger, as the locals referred to his intended's home. 

Viktor often breakfasted with the witch and her son before going to Hogwarts where he had been assisting Madame Pomfrey since the end of his apprenticeship to her. He did not require the income he received as Poppy's assistant, or from his remuneration as the school's flying instructor, but he enjoyed the atmosphere of the castle very much—and working there gave him an excuse to be near the woman he loved.

Childish laughter broke his reverie—adult childish laughter—as well as the familiar giggle of young Percy. _Damn!_ Viktor cursed inwardly. _Fred and George are here_. The Weasley Twins had always been civil enough to him, but the medi-wizard knew that they disapproved of his attentions to their brother's "would-have-been" wife. _Perhaps I should go_.

"Viktor?" Hermione asked tiredly from behind him.

"Vhat are you doing out here?" the wizard asked, as the witch, whose darkened eyes peered out from under and unusually untidy mass of curls that spilled out of her pointed red hat, walked up to stand in front of him on her little porch.

"I was called out early this morning. Haven't you heard? There was a vampire attack at the Shrieking Shack last night. Alastor Moody—"

"Master Moody?"

"Is dead, and the Aurors found two wounded victims near the Toll Booth, as well."

"Zhat is dreadful! Are zhey all right?"

Hermione sat down on the swinging bench she had hung to rock Percy to sleep when he was a baby and sighed. "Yes, thank the gods. John Coachman was a little shaky, but he and his passenger, a rather rough-looking man named Erasmus, managed to fight off the creature with eldritch sticks. I patched them up, and they'll be fine."

Viktor sat down next to the witch. "You seem upset, zhough. Vhat is it?"

Hermione snorted. "Besides the fact that there was a bloodsucker in my town last night?" she asked through a tight smile.

"You saw somethink in zhe blood, did you not?"

"Yes, I did, and I don't understand it."

"Vhell?"

"Images of monsters— _not_ vampires—and they were everywhere."

"Vhat do you mean, 'everywhere'?"

Hermione gazed at her friend through worried eyes. "Viktor, these creatures, they were _here_ , in Hogsmeade."

~*~

Luna Lovegood was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of owls that had been arriving at her office of the _Quibbler_ since just after dawn when the first run of the paper had gone out. Her father said that response to an article had not been _this_ intense since the story they had run defending Harry Potter and confirming the reappearance of Lord Voldemort years ago.

 _I'm glad I wasn't around to see that nightmare_ , the ombudswitch thought fervently as yet another owl bag of responses was delivered to her from the mail room by four bedraggled-looking brown birds. She checked her self-pity at once, however, for _her_ day was going to be a pleasant dream in contrast to what awaited Ree Potter and Severus Snape.

_Perhaps the vampire incident will draw some of the interest away from what happened at the Gryphon's Foote_ , Luna hoped. But glancing down at the rigid smile of Professor Snape as he tapped Draco Malfoy's shoulder—over which Ree's pained face was clearly visible—Luna knew that she was wrong.

~*~

Albus sighed heavily over his toast at the High Table. The students were chattering discontentedly to themselves about the lack of mail delivery. _I'm going to have to make an announcement_ , he told himself resignedly. Glancing at the other professors, most of whom received their mail in their rooms, he knew that the scandal involving Professors Potter and Snape was already common knowledge.

Professor Sprout caught Albus' eye and raised one curious eyebrow.

_Oh, very well, Pomona_ , the headmaster thought in irritation. He rose to address the students. _At least Harry and Severus are not here to hear this_. "Good morning, children."

The interested silence that rolled over the students' tables to the teachers' hit Albus as a wall of "Well?"

"I realize that you may be wondering about the lack of mail this morning," he continued, furiously trying to decide what to say.

It was then that Severus Snape arrived through the staff door to take his seat. Albus felt his eyes slide quickly to Harry's empty chair—there was not even a plate before it, oddly enough—before turning to look at the headmaster expectantly.

"There was an unfortunate event last evening." 

Albus paused. He wanted to gauge the Potions master's reaction to his words. The man remained perfectly composed in both posture and mind, betraying no response to the announcement. _Except that something untoward has passed between himself and Harry_ , Albus thought, increasingly concerned. So much depended on the union between his two favorite people. He was well aware of the news of Severus' argument with Draco Malfoy, but he still did not know about what the disagreement had been. Abruptly, he decided not to remind the students _not_ to gossip about the affairs of others, as had been his tentative plan. _It will only make the situation worse_.

"A vampire attacked Alastor Moody and two others in Hogsmeade last night, and I am sad to report that Master Moody did not survive his injuries."

The Great Hall erupted with the sounds of student exclamations.

"Please be silent!" Albus thundered.

The clamor ceased at once.

"It is highly unusual for such creatures to enter inhabited settlements without the express consent of the Unit on Non-Magical Creatures, as some of you may be aware. This being was, unfortunately, destroyed before it could be identified. A necessary step, given the circumstances, as our own Defense Against the Dark Arts mistress reported to Ministry officials after killing it."

The students burst into riotous applause to laud Professor Potter's heroism.

"But because of the lack of identification of the creature," Albus continued, "there is some cause for concern. It may not have been the only vampire to enter the town."

The implications of this information quieted the students again, allowing the clatter of the Potions master's chair to reverberate in the hall.

"Because of this state of affairs, I believe it would be the wisest course to cancel all outdoor activities until such time as the Ministry has completed its inquiry into the matter."

The headmaster paused long enough to permit the expected grousing of the students to this unwelcome news.

"I do not believe it will take long for the necessary search to be made, but until I hear from Blaise Zabini, the new master of Novitiate One and the liaison between the Department of Auror Activities and Hogwarts' Board of Governors, I am afraid that any trips into Hogsmeade must be canceled, and—" Albus announced loudly, "all students who are required to attend classes in outlying buildings will be escorted to them by their professors. You will please await your instructors in the entrance hall of the castle precisely ten minutes before classes are due to commence. That is all," he concluded, giving a signal for the mail to be flown in.

As the _Daily Prophet_ found its way to the tables, the students promptly forgot their dismay and began gossiping furiously about the other goings on of Professor Potter. Watching the excited chattering children, Albus found himself wondering why Dobby had neglected to provide Harry with any tableware.

_Perhaps he knew that she would not be coming to breakfast this morning_.

In spite of his concern about Harry's involvement in the disquieting events of last evening, Albus found that he could hardly blame the witch for absenting herself from the initial flurry of speculation about the recent turn of events in her life.

~*~

— _so stupid_ , Harry was thinking as Sirius and Remus paced her main room in distress. _What have I done?_

"Thank Merlin that no one was harmed," Remus was saying as his partner tried to comfort him. "But I simply don't understand how this is possible!"

Harry was relieved that she had changed her clothing before her god- and heartfathers had arrived. _It wouldn't do to give them anything else to worry about_. Although she very much wanted to question them about the Courtship Rites, she felt unable to do so when considering the cock-up she had made of her attempts to protect them.

A knock interrupted the scene of fretful pondering.

"Harry, open this door!"

_Severus. . . . Shit!_

"I'll get it," Sirius said.

Harry leapt to her feet. "No! . . . _No_. I will. Why don't you two go into the kitchen and put the kettle on? We'll all feel calmer after some tea."

Remus did not demur, but Sirius cast a suspicious eye upon his godchild as if only just noticing _her_ state of mind.

"Harry, what—"

BANG, BANG, BANG—"Open this door, _now_ , or I'll—"

Harry crossed the floor and opened the door while forcefully gesturing toward the kitchen for Sirius' benefit, and the wizard hurried off, suddenly realizing that things had taken an unexpectedly bad turn between Harry and Severus.

He just missed the Potions master pushing into the room and grabbing Harry by the shoulders.

"Are you all right? What happened last night? Why were you in Hogsmeade? How is it _possible_ that—"

"Please let go of me, Professor Snape," Harry said quietly, hating herself as the cold words left her mouth.

"As you wish, Professor Potter," the man replied with stiff formality. "Forgive my . . . intrusion, but I felt—"

"Please come in, Sev—Professor—I'm sure you have questions about the incident, and it seems I have something to ask of you, as well."

Neither professor noticed the other occupants of the rooms pressing themselves against the far side of the kitchen door, or the long, skinny, pink ribbon that snaked its way across the floor toward the hearth as they sat down.

"Where did you get Extendable Ears?" Remus whispered to Sirius.

"Confiscated 'em," the other wizard replied, raising an eyebrow toward the door. "Shh!"

Severus broke the awkward silence first. There were many things that he wanted to ask Harry, but he was uncertain of his footing, and decided that the most obvious question was the most secure way in which to begin their discussion.

"How did it happen?"

_Gods, I hope you mean Hogsmeade_ , Harry thought. "I was flying—clearing my head—I found the vampire just after it had killed Master Moody. I trust you know the rest?"

Severus bridled. "No, I _do not_. How is it possible that a vampire could be—" but here, he stopped himself. Harry did not know how he had come to bear the "gift" of vampiric blood, and he was not about to betray Rosmerta. _Damnation!_ he thought. _I never told her that I no longer bear the taint in my blood!_

"I don't know anything more than the fact that I toasted the vampire and reported Moody's murder, Professor."

Harry hoped that this would satisfy the man. She did not believe he realized that Rosmerta was a vampire, and she was not about to betray the publican. _Especially after she . . . she . . ._ "She's the one, isn't she?" the witch demanded, suddenly drawing a conclusion that she felt would have been obvious to her but for the other distressing events of the previous evening.

_She knows!_ Severus thought, alarmed.

"'She's the one', what?" Sirius asked Remus, whose face had suddenly hardened.

" _Listen_ ," his lover admonished him.

Harry stood and stared down at Severus. "How could you allow that _woman_ to—"

"I hardly think," Severus said harshly, also rising, "that _you_ are in a position to lecture me about the hazards of blood magic!" _Much better_ , the wizard thought as his words caused Harry's mouth to snap shut.

"Oh, that's _disgusting!_ " Sirius hissed to Remus, who clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Forgive _my_ intrusion," Harry spat. "I'm certain you have your reasons for permitting the pollution of your bo—"

"My body is no concern of yours!" Snape spat back, truly angry now. "I apologize for burdening you with my concern over _yours_."

"Apology accepted!" yelled Harry, stepping closer to the man and putting her foot down on something that squished.

"Agh!" screamed Sirius and Remus in unison from the kitchen in response to the loud crackling that issued from the ear piece they had been holding between themselves.

Severus dove nimbly toward Harry's left foot and grabbed the eavesdropping device before the witch could register what he was doing, but the man noticed with something close to wry pride that she had reflexively drawn her hand back and up as if to unsheathe her sword.

"Bloody pranking Gryffindors!" raged the wizard, yanking hard on the cord of the Extendable Ears and drawing his wand to point it at the kitchen.

"Duck!" called Harry, throwing herself on top of the kneeling wizard and knocking him to the floor.

The freezing hex that he had cast shot wide, striking the ceiling over the door and causing a cascade of pebbles to rain down on the corner of the room.

"Damn it, get off me!" Severus demanded, as Harry rolled him onto his back and pinned him by grinding her hips into his.

The two professors were pierced on each other's shocked gazes, locked in mid-struggle when Sirius and Remus opened the door and stepped warily into the room in astonishment.

Surveying the scene, Remus placed a restraining hand on Sirius' wand arm and put his own away. "We'll just continue our chat another time then, shall we?" he inquired rhetorically, pulling his lover across the room toward the door with a strength he seldom employed.

The call of the kettle shrieked over the creak of the closing door, and Remus and Sirius collapsed into a pile of helpless, relieved laughter in the otherwise quiet corridor.

"Oh, gods! I'm glad she lives so far away from everyone else!" Sirius gasped, rolling over his lover to set a silencing charm on Harry's chambers for good measure.

He was not alone in having recognized the signs of the onset of an exercise of mythic reconciliation, either, for Remus had also cast a privacy spell of sorts.

"What _was_ that?" Sirius asked.

Remus grinned wider. "Let's just say that it's a variant on the kind of spell that had to have been used to hide Severus' quarters the other day. I did a little research after the incident. Now, no one will disturb those two until they're ready to be found."

Sirius pulled himself up off of the stones and offered his hand to his lover. "Come on, let's go inform Dumbledore of the change in Harry and Severus' . . . schedule."

They were still laughing when they reached the headmaster's office.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Managing

Remus found it troubling when Albus Dumbledore did not immediately tax him for having neglected to dose himself with the Wolfsbane Potion. _I don't understand it. Dumbledore has always been excessively kind to me, but I endangered everyone by my carelessness. He should be furious_.

Even Sirius, who refused to think of Remus' failure as recklessness, was confused by the headmaster's lack of anger.

Albus watched the pensive couple sitting before him and knew at once what had occurred the previous evening. _Harry has indeed learnt by my example_ , he thought sadly. _But no good will come of revealing her machinations to her family, particularly as I know that Ro most certainly was involved in the affair_.

The wizard knew that his old love was a long-time "solver" of problems that fell outside the scope of the Ministry's reach. While the witch was not evil, per se, she had always been inclined to eschew bureaucracy in favor of the direct approach. Indeed, the woman felt that it was her rightful place as a guardian of the Land and her town to preserve what she could of the general peace even as she wrought her own form of contained destruction to see that good was done.

_Ro, Harry, and I have that in common, do we not?_ Albus asked himself, omitting certain others he might have done well to include in his list.

The Greater Good had many servants, though not all of them undertook to understand their roles in the same manner. And none of them could claim to remember ever receiving any true instruction as to their tasks. But as Albus found himself approaching the end of his life, he was no longer certain that allowing one's best intentions to guide oneself was any better than being motivated to act by _guilt_.

_Unfortunately, I am too old to learn how to behave any differently_ , the wizard realized, _and matters need managing, here_.

"Remus," said the headmaster, "I think that Sirius' idea is very likely the closest thing to an explanation we can have. Severus' potion must have developed efficacious lingering properties, or you would have attacked someone last night."

"But someone _was_ attacked," Remus said quietly.

By now, he and Sirius were aware of Alastor Moody's death.

"That was nothing to do with you!" Sirius exclaimed, clasping his lover's hand in support.

"Indeed, dear boy, we have the proof of Harry's account to the Ministry officials that it was a _vampire_ who killed poor Alastor. She would not mistake the matter, as I'm sure you know."

That was true, Remus knew; Harry could tell a vampire from a werewolf well enough. But the man still felt too shaken by his lapse to feel easy. Waking up in the cellar of the Three Broomsticks had felt very much like a nightmare.

He was surprised when Sirius said, in a gentle tone, "Moody's death must be a terrible loss to you, Albus."

The old wizard calculatingly allowed himself to express more grief than he felt to show on his features, and was gratified by the result of his performance as he perceived Remus' thoughts.

_Grief. That explains Albus' reticence to chastize me. The man has seen so much of loss, hasn't he?_

The headmaster considered that what contemporaries _were_ left to him would need to be visited. _And soon_. "Thank you, Sirius. But rather than dwell on that which we cannot change, I feel we might more profitably turn our attention to those matters that concern the living."

"Do you mean Harry and Severus?" Sirius asked.

"No, dear boy. I believe they have themselves quite in hand," Albus replied, his eyes twinkling. "I rather think we might consider how best to approach the matter of young Zabini."

None of the wizards felt easy about the alteration in the Auror's professional status, so they entered into a lengthy debate about how this change might bear on their ongoing investigation into the man's suspected involvement in the mysterious interest being displayed in the early history of Wizarding Britain.

~*~

At long last, Balthazar Zabini felt as though his patience had earned him a measure of success. He was about to meet with the wife of Ambrose Blake, who would surely know something of her husband's last Auror mission. He was certain that, if he could discover how Ambrose had been . . . subdued, he would be one step closer toward redeeming himself in the eyes of his family—who had many reasons to distrust him, not the least of which being that he had never fully supported the Dark Lord.

 _Voldemort was a dangerous fool bent on destroying all of us for his own selfish aggrandizement_ , the man mused as he walked through the doors of St. Mungo's. True, he _had_ allowed the half-breed to use him in various schemes, chief among them the removal of several of the Ministry's more vocal critics of the insane wizard, but he had avoided taking the Dark Mark by claiming to fear its effects on his Metamorphmagical powers.

His parents had never forgiven him for that lapse. They had called him a coward, called him weak, called him useless. _But_ no one _will deny my usefulness when I discover what kind of magic was used against Ambrose. Zoroastrid will_ have _to allow me to assist her more directly in our family's great work_ , then.

~*~

The path from the Dower House to Snape Manor was a short one over gleaming cobbles that had been set into the ground for centuries. Vedette trod the stones and allowed the comfort of her family's familiar warding magics to convey her toward an early meeting with Trillare in reasonably good spirits. She was resolved to enjoy her homecoming, as it brought her an opportunity to put her daughter-in-law firmly in her place.

 _The boy is determined to make the thing harder than it should be_ , the witch told herself, _and I will not allow that social-climbing snake of a mother of his to cause him any trouble_.

An old soldier of the Wilds, Granny Jasper knew better than most how important it was for the Families to continue their lines; but unlike many in her social position, she was not burdened by the destructive prejudice of blood hatred. She had seen enough to know that strength came from a blending of spirit and flesh, and was a staunch advocate of introducing new strains into the bloodlines to bolster the old Houses.

She had often thought to question Tancredo's practice of reanimating his troops rather than allowing them to produce more of their kind in the traditional way, but had never been foolish enough to question the Oldest One. Feeling the power that had been the result of her master's gift, Vedette knew the choices necessary for the survival of those who dwelt on her side of the Barrier would need to be different.

_My House requires fresh blood to survive, as do we all in our way_.

The witch had high hopes that the next Assembly would yield a healthy alliance between her grandson and a witch of tremendous power—power that would pass from her blood into her children's and sustain them independently of that woman, rather than having to draw it from the vein of a thane, as she herself had done.

_I will weaken now, but the children of my child's son shall not. And if Trillare is determined to interfere with my plans, then I shall cease the flow of blood from her veins_.

Vedette Aurelia Jasper Snape, mater familia of an ancient House, was home at last.

~*~

Draco found himself pacing the gardens of the Zabini estate in agitation. He had not wished to come here, but his mother would not entertain the thought of her son taking rooms in "a disreputable dive ill-befitting your position." She had urged him to accompany her to her lover's home, and he had relented because he thought it might provide him an opportunity of speaking to Blaise again. He had much to discuss with his . . . friend.

 _And it's always difficult to say no to Mother_.

He was not certain why Narcissa had decided that he was ready to leave France and return to Britain, but he was grateful to have been fêted and fussed over that evening in ways more convivial than those the "medi-jailors" had employed. His "convalescence" had done nothing to repair the gaps in his mind.

_Don't dwell on that, Draco. What_ do _you know?_

He was powerful. His lord had trained him well at Durmstrang, and he half-remembered avenging his father's murder while Voldemort looked on. 

_But perhaps that magic was borne of grief? I haven't been able to access it since I destroyed the traitor. . . . No_ , he suddenly realized, _since Blaise came to save me_.

The pain of his rescue washed over Draco in fresh waves, leaving him feeling weak and ashamed. He knew first-hand how the Dark Lord had shared power with those who bore the Dark Mark.

_And when Blaise unmade my connection to my master, he stole my access to that magic, didn't he?_

Not for the first time, Draco wondered how his lover had managed the task of saving him. Such an effort was something he could have more easily credited his father with undertaking.

_But Daddy is dead_.

His mother had "protected" him in France for several years, yet Draco believed that his mother's only use for him was as a piece in her social game-playing. Despite this, he wanted her love, even though she scared him.

Knowing that he dare not risk open rebellion against Narcissa when his position was so tenuous, he decided to be patient and maneuver himself into a position of power before acting.

_Perhaps I_ should _marry Harry_ , he thought. _Then we could look out for each other_.

~*~

Zoroastrid was coming to a conclusion of her own, that morning. She understood, as did few others, Narcissa's desire to lead their social set. Having long been a slave to Lucius' every perverted whim, her lover had risen from her enchanted sleep at her husband's hand to bend her every thought to her own preservation. _After such a marriage, who could blame her?_

Narcissa Isarat Black Malfoy had always been a creature inclined toward weakness. But the witch the woman had become was almost frightening in her intensities. _Sometimes, her desire seems to stem from so much madness_ , Zoroastrid thought. She no longer believed that her lover could be trusted to do what was right by their kind. _Which means that I will never be able to share my plans with Cissa_.

It was a grief to Zoroastrid not to trust the love of her life any longer, but matters stood clearly before her. _Narcissa is actively encouraging the pollution of her Line, and such behavior cannot be permitted if we are to survive. She will have to be stopped before she damages one of the oldest Houses by her ill-founded ambition_. House Zabini had been working toward the restructuring of the government and its people for far too long to allow one desperate witch so much control.

_And I mean to wield more than the threat of ostracization from society over Narcissa's head to teach her obedience. I pray to Salazar that I shan't have to kill her_.

~*~

Harry's desire was as a serpent that coiled around her will to strangle all sense from her mind as her body sought a more basic form of reason from the one that burned beneath her.

"Severus!" she hissed, grinding herself against the wizard in the unspoken language of need.

He answered her gesture with a savage thrust of his own, and then rolled the stunned woman to the floor next to him before gathering her easily into a rising embrace. Standing, he held her firmly against himself in an heroic attempt to still their passion.

"Harry, wait!"

"For _what?_ " she demanded, experiencing his hesitance as a rejection and attempting to push away from him roughly.

But the man would not release her.

" _Why_ don't you want me? _Why_ are you—"

"Enough, you idiot girl!" Severus thundered, grabbing Harry by her shoulders and shaking her fiercely, his eyes black and deadly. "I will _not_ permit you to doubt me any longer!"

Harry could have escaped him without difficulty had she desired it, but, having at last provoked a response from her lover, she went limp in his arms to allow him to lead them while thinking, _You're hurting me_.

Severus registered her stillness as surrender as he also realized that he was digging his fingers into the girl's flesh with enough force to bruise. He thrust her away from himself before he could damage her further, and then staggered a bit, breathing heavily, and trying to understand what had just passed between them.

"I never meant . . . I wouldn't . . ." he said, horrified by his actions, which he felt were too like his father's toward his mother to be forgiven. _Oh, gods! I hurt you. I never thought I'd hurt you, Harry_. Taking a step toward her, he tried to explain himself. "Harry, please, I—"

But when the witch stepped away from him, Severus could not continue.

_I've made you afraid of me_ , he thought in despair. _I've ruined everything_.

Harry stood there hugging her abused arms against herself, something indecipherable clouding her eyes, and the wizard found that anger was his only refuge against what he took to be her silent accusation.

"Did you enjoy that little display of yours, Potter?" he spat, hating the way she cringed under the lash of his ungoverned tongue. "Was this all some elaborate prank to humiliate me? Did your beloved _parents_ put you up to it?" he mocked, attempting to force some other reaction from his lover than mute stupefaction. "How like you to require an audience!"

"Stop it," Harry said weakly.

"Why, Potter?" the man continued, warming to his subject now that Harry seemed to be aware of him again. "Surely you did not believe that I would allow your actions pass without some form of retribution. If you felt yourself inadequate to face me alone, you might at least have done me the courtesy of owling me as to the alteration of your affections. As I recall, you are rather adept at the art of _correspondence_."

A look of cold fury crossed the witch's face, and she lowered her arms, clenching and unclenching her fists as if to prevent herself from acting on the feeling.

"Come now," Severus taunted, almost enjoying himself, now. "Why hold back? You surely do not imagine that I am _afraid_ of you, _do_ you? How could you believe that when you are not even strong enough to speak?"

A vicious smile marred Harry's face like a jagged wound, giving the wizard pause. It was an expression that held within it something far worse than death. "Oh, but you _should_ be afraid of me, Snape," she replied with slow vehemence.

"You should be very frightened of me, indeed."

The promise inherent in the woman's tone made Severus reach for his wand, but it was no longer tucked within his robes.

And then he was no longer standing in Potter's chambers, but in the midst of a seething storm of biting ice and shrieking winds. And rising over the maelstrom into which he had been thrust was a crackle of cackling laughter that sliced a path of fear directly up his fear-stiffened spine.

_Harry's laughter_ , Severus realized, though he could not see the witch through the violent precipitation that buffeted him and obscured his vision. He raised his arms to protect his eyes, and tried to prevent himself from being blown to the icy ground.

A clear voice was suddenly at his ear. "Still feeling confident of my _weakness_ , are you?"

But when the Potions master turned to grasp at Harry he found himself quite alone.

"Stop it!" he cried. "Harry, stop this at once!"

The quiet fell so quickly that it became a loudness in itself.

"As you wish," an alien, disembodied voice echoed across the snowscape.

Severus stood very still, uncertain of what next to expect. Gentle waves of snow blew across the vast white landscape as far as his eyes could discern, but, curiously, the scene did not have the blinding cast one might expect in a winter plain under the light of day. _That is because there is no sun here to be reflected_. In as calm a tone as he could achieve, he asked, "Where are we, Harry?"

And he was pleased with himself for not starting when he felt the warmth of a small hand rest itself on his left arm.

"In the place I went after Neville and I killed Voldemort."

Severus turned to regard Harry warily. Though his clothing was soaking wet and sticking clammily to his skin, her garments were dry, and they billowed slightly in the freezing breeze.

The witch raised her arms to display herself. "Like me, Severus? I'm one of Albus' pet mo—monsters."

Had the woman's voice not broken on "monsters," the man would never have presumed to touch her, but he could sense that she was as terrified now as he had been only moments before. He reached for her and pulled her into his arms.

"You are _not_ a monster."

But what the witch _was_ , the wizard could not say.

_Perhaps Albus will explain it to me before I kill him_.

"There's no need for that, Severus. Albus is dying."

"What?"

"Our headmaster is finally allowing himself to die," Harry answered him, stepping away. "I think we could do with a bit of a change, don't you?"

And then a river of soft green grass flowed over the slush under their feet to form a meadow. Birds chirped in the materializing trees. Bees buzzed from the flowers that bloomed atop newly grown stalks. And the air was redolent of spring as Severus felt his clothing dry and his skin warm.

"How is it possible that you can do these things?"

Tucking her feet under her body as she fell gracefully to the ground, Harry said, "I have no idea, but Albus tells me that it's a gift."

The wizard joined the witch on the carpet of grass. "I knew that he was powerful, but—"

"Oh, I didn't mean to imply that it was Albus' gift, Severus."

"Then _how_ —"

"Forgive me for the interruption, but I'd rather not discuss it, now."

"What _do_ you want?" Severus snapped, not quite recovered from the display of power he had just witnessed. _Experienced_ , he corrected himself.

"To know if you really spent half a year's salary on the Terrace, for starters."

"What kind of a question is _that?_ "

"A simple one, really."

"Miss Potter, after what I have just seen, you can _hardly_ expect me to carry on a normal conversation."

The witch sighed sadly. "So we're back to formal titles, then?"

"Harry, what is it that you _want_ from me?"

"To know what it is that you want from _me_."

Exasperated, Severus tried to answer her. "I . . . I just . . . I do _not_ understand you!"

"Oh. Oh, I see. I've made you afraid of me," Harry said, beginning to stand.

"Please don't go," the man said, catching the woman's arm.

Harry sat down again. "I'm sorry, Severus. I didn't mean to hurt _you_ , either. I just couldn't stand our fighting any longer."

The wizard laughed, a short bark of sound, and pulled his lover against his body. "So you brought me here to kill me? That _is_ an excellent method of quelling an argument."

Relaxing against him, Harry replied quietly, "I never intended to kill you. . . . I love you."

_Now would be a good time to respond in kind, you idiot_ , the man instructed himself, but before he could gather his courage, asked, "Is that a kettle I hear?"

It was.

Feeling defeated, Harry said, "I'll get it."

Severus blinked in astonishment, his eyes stinging with the unshed tears that the bereft tone of the woman's voice had inspired, as he found himself standing by Harry's hearth once again. _I_ do _love you, but if I should admit as much_ now, _how will you ever believe me?_

The witch entered the room followed by a levitating tea tray. "Would you care for a cup? I have Earl Gre—"

"Please," Severus interrupted her. "Let's not pretend that this is—"

"What?" Harry asked, making her own effort to compose herself. "What is this?"

"This is fear."

"Fear?"

"Yes," the wizard responded, risking the offer of his hand.

He knew that he _would_ cry should she not take it, but Harry quickly crossed the room and accepted Severus' hand as the tea tray returned to the kitchen, clinking and clattering as they heard it set itself down on a counter.

The couple settled themselves on the sofa that was placed between the two chairs framing the hearth and fidgeted a bit before finding a comfortable position.

After awhile, Harry asked, "Why do we make things so hard?"

Severus snorted. "I cannot say."

"I know."

"Harry . . . I fear that if I say the words, the words that I have felt for longer than you could possibly know, that you would not believe them . . . that you would not believe _me_."

His response was tentative, but Harry could feel the certainty of Severus' love through his admission, and felt foolish to have doubted his feelings. "The first time you kissed me I felt you race through every fibre of my being. That spark, do you remember it?"

"Yes. I felt it, too. It . . . it terrified me."

"And did it scare you to feel Voldemort inside of you?"

"You are _not_ Voldemort, Harry!"

The witch turned her face up to gaze into her lover's. "But I _could be_ , Severus. That was what I was trying to show you just now."

The wizard poured as much conviction into his tone as he could in order to reassure the witch as he said, "I may not have realized the extent of your power until now, Harry, but I have never doubted _you_." _Believe me, please_ , he willed before continuing to speak. "The . . . miracle of _your_ magic is that you seek _not_ to use it."

Harry smiled shyly. "That's almost poetry."

"I do not seek to woo you through saccharine sentiment."

"I _know_ that, Severus. I . . . come with me," she said decisively, standing up suddenly. "Come with me right now."

"Where?" he asked, standing more slowly.

But the witch was already walking out of the room.

Severus followed Harry warily into the center of her bedchamber where she stood waiting for him, an expectant expression gracing her features.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she began unlacing the strings of her dragonhide boots before stepping out of them.

Harry slid out of her soft brown trousers and stepped out of them as she pulled her loose white blouse over her head and tossed it to the floor. "Showing you the rest of my secrets," she told him without a blush.

Severus could not boast as much. When Harry took his hand and drew him closer, he thought he might burn to ashes under her touch.

"Do you see this?" she asked, indicating the delicate silver tracery that decorated the right side of her belly and wound around to her back.

"What happened to you?" the man asked, disturbed and intrigued at once. "Why were you not healed properly?"

In answer, the woman guided her lover's hand to the scar. "Touch it. It's part of me, part of how I learned _not_ to use my magic."

Gliding his fingertips over the almost imperceptible ridge of her scar, Severus realized that Harry must have received the wound during her service to the vampire. "There are many secrets between us, are there not?"

"Yes, there are—and there may yet be more. . . . Can you accept that?"

"Harry, I have done things that, if you knew of them—"

"Neither of us is perfect, Severus. I know that. And I also know that we've survived our mistakes without each other for a long time," she said, moving closer to the man. "But I don't believe that I could _live_ without you, not _truly_ , and I'm tired of trying. You and I are bound to each other more strongly now than we were when we _both_ bore Voldemort's mark."

"You _never_ bore—"

Harry shook the wisps of her hair that had loosened themselves from her braid to cover the runic mark on her forehead and looked at Severus pointedly.

"I have never allowed myself to think of this," he said, touching the lightening-shaped scar, "as the Dark Lord's mark upon you. . . . I am a fool."

"No, you are in love," the woman whispered, leaning into his hand.

The wizard bent his forehead to touch Harry's in silent assent.

"Harry . . . ."

"Severus . . . _Severus_ , it's all right. I _know_. I know _you_. That's enough. That's _everything_."

They were both crying now, and Severus began to purposefully kiss Harry's tears into his mouth, urging her wordlessly to do the same by the movement of his cheek against her lips.

The salty taste of their combined tears flooded their mouths as their tongues met and danced through the steps of an ancient rite that had never found its way onto stone or parchment, and the two lovers experienced the heady sensation of being filled with love, completed, and truly bound, as a wave of magic coursed through their bodies, leaving them trembling and gasping into each other's mouths.

When he found that the strength had returned to his limbs, Severus swung Harry up into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her down upon it before stepping back to observe the woman reverently.

"You . . . you are _shimmering_ ," he breathed, not understanding what had just happened, but finding that he did not care.

Harry, too, was unconcerned as she rolled up onto her knees to watch Severus divest himself of his clothing and began to unbraid her hair completely.

"Oh!" he gasped, momentarily forgetting his task. "If you only knew how long I've wanted to see you wearing nothing but that dark curtain of hair . . . ."

The witch favored her lover with an impish smirk. "I think I _do_ know, love. Why do you think I let it grow so long?" she asked, slipping out of her undergarments and displaying herself to him without shame.

Severus laughed for joy as the meaning of Harry's revelation washed over him. "Minx," he said heatedly.

"Tease," she replied happily, her eyes widening as her lover finally removed the last of _his_ garments.

They allowed themselves to enjoy a lingering anticipatory pause, pregnant with erotic suspense, as they felt themselves to be free of every emotional barrier between themselves.

"Harry?" the wizard asked as he finally reached for the woman who was his and was welcomed into an embrace that was theirs alone.

"Yes, Severus?"

_I love you_.


	14. Epilogue

Poppy Pomfrey was distracted. She bustled about the small workroom off of the Infirmary attempting to bring yet more order to the tidy and already organized space, but her disturbed spirit was not soothed by the activity.

_I am so disappointed in Albus_ , she thought, feeling sad, and, she realized, lonely.

Poppy was rarely plagued by loneliness, having so dedicated herself to the welfare of her "children" that she had little time for the emotion. _But it oppresses me now, doesn't it?_

She knew that there was only one thing to do at such a time.

_I must pray_.

The witch allowed herself to ignore the barriers she had accepted as a requirement of her existence and entered the shelter of the copse of trees that surrounded the earthen altar she had constructed shortly after coming to Hogwarts to live.

She found that she was not the only adherent of the Old Ways to seek solace in the holy place.

"Greetings, Firebright, Herd Mistress of the Centaurs," Poppy greeted the half-horse, half-human being who knelt before the mound in the center of the clearing in concentration.

The centaur rose gracefully and dipped her head in obeisance to the witch. "First Priestess, do you bring a blessing?"

"All blessings flow from Isarat, our Mother and Guide," Poppy intoned, her voice thrumming with the power of the Goddess.

"The Star is the Way, our Guide in All."

"What troubles you, my child?" the witch asked, approaching the centaur and reaching out to stroke the being's mane.

"I read strange portents in the sky, and I do not understand them, my priestess."

"And I have not come for some time," Poppy said, glancing about the clearing which was bare of all floral adornment, a state she knew she would have to correct.

"I do not presume to teach you _your_ duties," Firebright said, accepting the woman's caress.

"A time of trouble is at hand, my child. And while it is not my place to question Isarat's ways, it _is_ my duty to help those who are guided by Her to accept and bear them."

"We have always borne the Mother's will, lady, yet . . . the young ones . . . are unsettled."

_So I see_. "Your people are strong, Firebright. They will manage."

"They seek _my_ strength, First Priestess, yet I do not feel it as I ought."

_And that is because I have neglected you, I fear_. "Shall we then pray together for guidance?" Poppy asked, taking her position on the mossy mound.

It had been a great age since any altar to Isarat had been made of stone. The earth and sky were all that the Goddess required to focus her children's prayers—the earth, the sky, and a Daughter of Her Hand.

The centaur raised her head and issued a call in the language of the Herding Folk, and soon, the tread of four-legged beings could be heard as they pushed through the branches of the trees and entered the temple.

"Gather in the cause of Peace," Poppy called, extending her arms as if to enfold the other worshipers in an embrace, and then she opened herself to receive Isarat's love so that it might flow through her and into the assembly.

She and the centaurs gasped as one as the Blessing washed over them, cleansing them of their fear and bathing them in the silver shimmer of the Goddess' power.

"Our Mother loves us, children, and She is with us. Cleave unto each other and know Truth."

"Our Mother is Love, our Guide through the All," the herd responded.

Tendrils of power wound through the beings in the silent wood, connecting the adherents in a Sharing that gave them strength, courage, and the peace of knowing that they each had a place in their Mother's Great Plan.

"Fear has no place amongst us, my children," the First Priestess told them in a voice not her own, as dewy green stems burst from the earth beneath the hooves of the Herding Folk, bearing with them shining silver blossoms of sweet scent.

_And nor does loneliness_ , Papavera of the Wilds told herself, as Isarat's altar was consecrated anew.

Rededicating herself to her sacred purpose, she pledged, "I was created to heal the loss of our Mother's Presence, and here before you now I again accept my duty with the will of my mind, the love of my heart, and the gift of my very being."


End file.
